FRETFUL NIGHT

How quiet. The world I’ve seen

more startling than a rainbow.

If I speak my wish to a playing card,

betting a bouquet of dim light

as a tranquil walnut awaits the old magician,

why can’t I pray

and like a shadow tell the sin?

You’ve been flying. Though my eyes close

I can’t see how to pray, to atone for a soul,

but finally we will meet

—”at this age, wind brushes the trees beyond the window.”

I offer my portrait,

unclever self,

skinning the pitch-dark premonition,

dissecting a thin pamphlet in a lab.

I can’t forget the peeled green sod,

the trees’ great powers.

You dredge soil from these dying roots,

digging out the source. At this very moment,

transient emptiness

floods the groves.

Aside from inexplicable love,

the motions of those trees

outside the window,

we own nothing.