I look out
from a car window
and remember
that I learned to
love the trees
and thought
of all the graves.
Of
all the shallow graves under
the erected deep
where
there is all hair,
lonely and naked,
against the time and rain
as a stage lit river bank
with drawn fire and ice clicks
along the cold side of the keys
to crawl like waves of
timber
among the
oceanic mountains
uttering a small prayer to say
that I am here,
up and coming,
coddled through coarse grind in pulpit about
peace and subtle motion.
All shallow.
All echo.
All graves and disbelief.

The woods all beckon.
The billboards gasp
in a valley of tears
and
I sit
for a long time
and think heavily
at the middle
of my steering wheel
until you push my hair back
and scratch my skin
like shallow cuts
to swell.
Under the erected deep
where
murderous crows lie, scattered
and
her crawl, now
a galvanizing leap.