Beneath its silver edges tingling in wind, every word I'd ever spoke blew up in my face, large hands warding something off. As a needle that won't sew things up, a ringtail dove eye-holes the sky, each raindrop knowing its cut. The sun, a white boulder in a white boulder field, noon's stone in my baggy pocket, a canteen of thaw strapped to the other hip, I spring, pushing off from the boulder that would keep me, the thin red cringe of muscle in my legs. A black moth with white spots gets out of the way. VII Night in an indifferent country, snow dropping thick, I walk uphill, after drinking a glass of beer with a slice of lemon.
Morning is white thirst.
Downhill in tree-blaze, I cross a stream that bubbles ice up, silver, in the shape of a braid. I stand there still.