Alone in these hills

without wife or child

I will die apart, grasping

at the roots that left behind

my sleeping heart

and the waves of sun bright pollen

will come above the tallest trees

with a script of days,

with an architectural chain

of platformed clouds

and crowns of solitude

in wandering I cannot share

and the blades are birds

betwixt an infinite fist

and the hollows of the burden

lit by sacrifices

deeper than molecules

of a vagrant water,

of the deer's kiss of cautious eyes

in a puddle-split distance,

breeze working enlivened grass

where she won't lie down

but I keep the lines tight

as crucifying dawn

the lips of a lingering fracture

a spider's nest of roads

traversing stone.