No ferns, but
Fringed rock
Spreads on hills
To cover us.
On stone of pollen
At the bend of sight
Stiff rocks
Cast violet eyes
Like rays of shadow,
Roam
Impenetrable
In a cold of glass—
The sun, a lichen
Spreading on the sky
For days
Behind the cold;
The burros,
Like iron-filings
Gathered to
The adamant.
The harvest falls
Throughout the valleys
With a sound of
Fire in leaves—
The harsh trees
Heavy with light
Beneath the flame, and aging,
Have risen high and higher—
Apricots,
The clustered
Fur of bees
Above the gray rocks of the uplands;
The hunter deep in summer;
Grass laid low by what comes,
Feet or air—
But motion, aging.
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