As if there is a hole in my vision
from the waters of birth
a veil that opens the sky
that my marrow senses
formulae jangle out of the stunned trees
giving names to the blood in my head
each cell in the chain of being
setting a tramped-on garden
with a ring on the thorn of life
a roof that holds its raincloud of fallen knives
and a glistening tuber
the sound of the leaves all
coming down on a sheaf of pipes
a hillside spilling silt
and its light of many beams
from cracked sand
the curving ribs of a painted cave
giving forth to wood.