Soon the pale will lift, and be carried. How long
Will the road go on? The birds tell but cannot be understood.
Along the leaf-strewn hills, I bargain with the stones;
Hand over my yearnings, for a bit of their stoic nature.

The rocks and their chins, held high, and sometimes turned.
If only my face weren’t so elastic, as the water,
Transient as the moon. I place down my weighted hopes
And they appear in sameness next to the rocks. I think

It possible I might forget which one my hope and which one
A stone. I think how the liver regenerates, how my left eye
Grows blind, and how the darkness invites dreams
Both awake and asleep, in the green I become tired.

The grasses pulsate with winds cool and cross. I have yet
To reach the top of my staircase, with all her dents
And crumbles. The tufts of colors, from things alive, once
Built over, I believe the oaks when they tell me, “Things continue.”