Incidentally, a few miles from loss,

In the shade of a shy, tangled green,

Branches, and roots are the whimsical shadow

Of a grace you dare not ask

For those then missing, now hiding up

In a white, wind-blown land, snow,

Or maybe your story if they never turn on the light,

Nor set it ablaze as you are too sick

Of so green a life-

Who cares, though, if unworthy souls

Upset the green, and even smallish trees

Look great for swanky rooms-

Who cares, though, if the underwood is throbbing

With limbs, cuts, burns, words

While desire is asking you to hand your cider

To heaven only, the rupture where

Shaky poems stop cold and freeze-

Your days, soul, when a lost idiom,

Desire, stays silent to dim words,

And sorry clouds can’t get summer

To silence at dusk lovers lost in their heat,

All tangled in games they can’t get,

The twisted smiles if you ever see a light

Dying to skirt discard, or those brazen seeds

Who beget them all, grass, sky, and wind-

Who cares, though, call them underwood,

A burning thirst, or no man's land,

If silence is your choice,

If snow, pewter skies, and a mantle of trees

Shirk her wonders-

Can you hear them? They’re after mislaid comets,

Mind, so, don’t ask if they’ll ever get back.