Be
content with little,
with
what sensible recurrence,
with
field, then field, then plane
of numbered plots, delimited,
even
the holy sequence unlocking
the
branches, elmand vein: enough
for
lightning’s find to sink in
generation,
enough, content
your
every capillary; no
fire
had to speak in the sky,
no
clouds needed ever
to
swallow bird song and jet.
No,
lights were brought in
and
left in orbits to attend
the
great disintegrating refuge
of
shadow of wall of range,
and in
all a voicing wind
to
carry mixed, full gasps
of
stillness and good news.
