(a narrative, in mosaic form)
a call
on heights
( — these
church-tall trees —
their spires — ) . . .
a nub
of
sand clenched tight inside
his fist
containing
sun ( — its
seed — ): the
mind through stone
yes: this
completes
us: this: this
single word
left
face
to
face
we
lie
beside
the river . . .
penumbra —
shading
hope, pro-
leptic, odd
this
dancing on
all fours;
this
joy of beasts
our
wings
adopt
the air:
we
swerve away
it
sees
us
here: the word-
contorted
light
so —
brimming
pestilence —
sky
wrestles
earth . . .
new life ( — a newer
dust — ): torn
from ( — brought to — )
our questing
tongues; our
perfect exit-
wound
some
breeze
to break
sparse
branches
out
to air
our Crusoe-
proud response: "we
made it
home"
( — a place you
carry to, carry
between — )
we stoop
to
keep
the scene
immaculate