Wood's Edge

    Infinity¹ lifted：

    a gasp² of emeralds.

    I thought I felt

    the tall night trees

    between them，

    no exactitude，

    a wait not even

    known yet.

    I held my violet up；

    no smell.

    It made a signal squeak

    inside， bats，

    lisps of pride；

    ah， their little things，

    their breath： lungs of a painting，

    they swept me

    in four ways， their square

    plans， as I have made

    a good square saying，

    you I

    you not-I

    not-you I

    not-you not-I，

    ritual of hope

    whose weight

    has not been measured—