Ease of Handling

I find a rust-red beast overlooking the mountain
where late snows sketch gullies and depressions

oh the lake water will be freezing it will be cold
beyond it all the trees talking amongst themselves

the trees singing into the ground and the ground responds
I am your brother your sister you are my mother

I have moisture maybe an idea I have a cure
(even for the scrubby green cushions at the lakeside)

nothing standing aloof though the knife in their hands
carves out edges for ease of handling

it is not the truth of the rust-red beast or the mountain
or pale trees all thighs and elbows supporting their leaves

the ground with its complex songs buoys up the city
sky and earth of the linear city blown heavenwards