I.
Frost on cheeks may be measured, amorously.

II.
The hawk circles above.
The hawk makes known all the space of the sky
in ringlets,
extensions of wingspan,
dynamic shape,
cyclic motion
until
the
dive.

III.
When the roads of summer dust cease churning,
When the smokened crackles of oily grease substitute cool,
When human machines accompany their electric bodies,
I return to the forest.

IV.
Home, born
maybe two,
three years ago,
is an enclave
shrouded,
for most,
in ennui.

Home,
the sound of
branch-squirrel-branch,
the light slapping on
dead plant flat
on flat under
flat-sole boots,
home,
allowing these shrouds
to manifest,
adjunct to
the ground.

V.
The reduction of *****
cleansing
is itself
shoved down these maws
of our future
expectations,
lingering,
gaining more
passivity than ever,
near
newly born,
hanging a hazy cirrus
on our old senses,
lingering
like some fickle god,
all standing by some
unseen master,
just to further
something more
with help.