If you are sad
And full of grump
Then think of a world
Without Donald Trump

searching for the perfect word on virginal paper
leads to the cut, to oaken tears, to a sorrow of yews;
then the unbalance: rowdy tracks of leaves and
branches, the pushing down against green bursts,
the mud and ways, as if we could claim to find
more truth than the idle wind through trees on
a summer's night, more than a hush or a whisper

unholy earth, dark with stein,
unformed loam at birth;
a worded child of mud;

fingernail skinned blacklack eyes
peek out of a ball of wet slam,
a groundling that waves like a black branch

across the sleeping fields,
see a shadow under the cold grass,
near in sight under a crust of frost.

rags of cloud top the wind
a dirt of wind turns your face,
arranged,
a pace of cloud dirts your face
the top of wind rags your pace;
the lines, now, for you

your face a pace of rain
the wind a race of dirt

stones under the sand,
roads around your eyes,
            when the moon stops

the tide fails, a cold bell
drops out of the ringing sky
            and you hide in shadow

drops of river or ice patches;
all of this without your notice
                but tough and half eternal,

the lemon tree grows
               cool and silent;
               this makes you remain.

not brown grass, not spindle trees
                              nor sloppy suns embrace you,

you sway in a summer hammock,
                              your shape unique,
                              a collection of eyes and glass;

no description ; time has limped to a stop,
                             the hours windless,
                             a girl at quiet under the sky