lxxxiv.

the birch haloed by the late light
twists and bows,

I will kneel, for a moment

the carpet beckons, so does
the early August night

somewhere far from here, where
the wind blows

sweet, waves the grass, and still
pass it, moving--listen:

rushing in a some kind
of dread line

nothing waits, not for you not
for me, nothing waits--past

the grass, nothing is still, it
moves, regardless,

beyond the night falling, rushing
going down, nothing--nothing

still, you might move too
to see it, regardless