The groundhog halfway down the hill

staring from a rock

hoping I don't notice.

Rivers through the moss descend

the earth is not a clenching hand

he waits until I walk away

to enter his burrow.

Lightning won't find him there

I'll go up on a hill to eat it

and climb the fire past the construct

made by wasteful thoughts

to an unmade castle

where the quiet part gets loud.

In the gaps punched by sacred memory

games of spirits without end

a sand grain mirror.

Webs have been tried

and branches flung from roots

mornings inside out

through bottomless nights

to gut my wrestling angel.

These roads will make a crescent

in their tangle

zones alert for just one healing word

where the unkept swerves.