or without a strike,
reeling
Exhibit 4
In the ocotillo’s arms
the red cranes roost.
The desert is creosote
in a clay pot.
The clarity of a single plant,
potted in sand
almost as old as dust,
mulched with pebbles
that remember their late rivers.
The plant is seconds old—
green stripling!—
in the gnomic earth.
Exhibit 5
Some find it in water
some in water’s frozen form.
On nordic tracks a chord of feeling
struck by a stand of saplings,
slight descent and burst of speed.
The smell of snow and sun
in the acceleration.
Freud called it infantile—certainly
it has to do with return,
with calling the saplings,
snow and waves by the same name,
which is also mine and yours.
Exhibit 6
Have you spent enough time in the hammered gold
to know the stillness of rocks is a ruse?
Rock echoes your consternation or relief
making the emptiness replete.
But what relief is flattery? Echo’s an oread, a mountain nymph,
slip of a girl unseen.
In a side-canyon water winds through petrified waves.
Time eats its walls.
Exhibit 7
sunrise in the valley
cries the light fanatic
inattentive to
the igneous at foot
rock will rise up
strike a thigh
and trick out spring
muscular in mauve and green
quit howling
at the heavens
this lithic dialectic
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