This is the press of the earth. One star hanging
there, honking like a goose. The lake
a smudge of black juice, the hill a draped
pancake. Frogs singing, sharp and gutty.

Night! Clean air, clear water, five
baby mink in a pile, snoring.
What overwhelm can be dug from sludge
below dock. On either side fruits slung
over branches, glued to their seeds.
I like so few people. Admire
fewer. Here in the slurry live the things
I consider; here in the hills. What do people
think of? What do they think of me
in my carings?

Ripples lunch on each other, heavenly
body lights flicker, too cool for moths.
I don't want to hurt things.
The fine brown eye of an animal,
the broad slick leaf of a wing.
I'd like to be gentle here.
I want to be worthy of you, lovely, tired
ground, bury my face in your broken bread.