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Elk in Summer
I never saw it
but for the sound—
them. In their hills
are the few times
in which the moon stopped.
My skull, that dark.
I was too proud,
having found light
like the deep woods—
secret blood, wind,
if you know it.
Light like waiting
for it. Past falls,
over timber,
over. Deeper—
the stars burn near
in silence. Breath.
I am against
what is said here—
no knowing step,
no word, needs me,
the pines creaking
are mine, no other’s.
Forgotten life—
man of the woods,
never with woods.
A creature lows
the empty between—
scent of the sound
in ochre leaves,
red needle rot.
Much moves without
needing me aware,
and keeps moving
while off the wind
goes to die. When
a clearing, moist
with cool, meets trees
along the dark, moves
with sureness, void
in of itself—
when the deadfall
uncoils, there’s doubt
at last that one
is a body, and
remains willing.
Doubt. You perhaps
caused this all.
but for the sound—
them. In their hills
are the few times
in which the moon stopped.
My skull, that dark.
I was too proud,
having found light
like the deep woods—
secret blood, wind,
if you know it.
Light like waiting
for it. Past falls,
over timber,
over. Deeper—
the stars burn near
in silence. Breath.
I am against
what is said here—
no knowing step,
no word, needs me,
the pines creaking
are mine, no other’s.
Forgotten life—
man of the woods,
never with woods.
A creature lows
the empty between—
scent of the sound
in ochre leaves,
red needle rot.
Much moves without
needing me aware,
and keeps moving
while off the wind
goes to die. When
a clearing, moist
with cool, meets trees
along the dark, moves
with sureness, void
in of itself—
when the deadfall
uncoils, there’s doubt
at last that one
is a body, and
remains willing.
Doubt. You perhaps
caused this all.
Posted 04/25/11
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