A runway the smell of green water herons
one-legged the wet light. It is always

River Road a field of berries in the twilight
a chapel pressing its white steeple up

against the sky. And under
the dank under the exhalation

of the ground only the un-
soundable distance between one

idea and another, or a god at play
as in -- Who are the berries for anyway?

Still, heavier/lighter I start the day, joy itself
a dusty oak thirsty for thunder or the purple gray

over the yellow straw the river opening
its wide umbrella.