in the territory of gray
squirrels, red ones
hightail branches
going sixties
steve mcqueen
dead vines
tumble down
a tamarack
like waterfalls
whipped with time
do not ask
the woods
for whom
the tree
is falling
everything
is
for the benefit
of knowing
this unknown
a rose-breasted grosbeak
finally arrives
from somewhere
southern, innocent
and full of pure potentiality
every living form
appears to be obsessed
with summer’s near arrival
disregarding every clue
it comes and goes as never here
sleeping means
seeing something is happening
awakening means seeing
nothing
ever does
great ones only
go beyond
division
by dividing anything
by nothing
there’s nothing
to say
that needs to be heard
except
it’s nameless
the leaves are green
the space is green
and my interpretations of
my dream is green
that’s what i’m dreaming
the summer’s here
and time is ripe
to contemplate
the transformation’s later light
and sing what no one’s saying
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