For long spells the flour mill lay closed
And the waterwheel would be overrun
By morning glories,
Even anchored by the vines,
Like a wreath for the funeral of the sun.

Other times I thought the wheel
Turned imperceptibly
Like a seasonal clock
Entangled by its own reflection
In the sunken mirrors of the earth.

For all we know another wheel
Turns the wheel;
Another sun inside the sun
Outlasts the waterwheel
And the bread of dumb flesh,
Grinding the flour of morning glories
Beyond the millstone,
Beautiful as a second coming
That never arrives.

fogdom isn’t the absence of clarity
it is a walking suspension of disbelief
blankness in every direction
snow melting into cloud
granular fog setting like hushed static
a few mental brushstrokes
and I brush in what’s erased
deer crossing highways
old apple trees from childhood
first love vanishing in the void
the incompleteness of everything
blending with the saturation
adds such sadness to this picture

Trees walk out to sea,
Waters encircle them like floating barrels.
Tall mastheads with green sails cross the sun.
Thick lateral roots act as rudders.
The trees plunge in rogue waves
And trim sails, following a tree star.
Barely visible now, cargo birds break free,
Clouds of them on the horizon.
The last tree to cross,
Branches brushing the backs of elephants.

Atrocities of the autopsy table,
Cutting a corpse from its roots,
First incision to undergrowth.
Could identity be separated
From earth’s long anonymity?

Let’s examine integration
Before extracting information
From an eco-system and deep self
Confounded with the same evil.
In the seasons of a forest
Time of death is natural duration
Accumulating burial in absence.

Doctors dissect a living death.
They pick over a wild garden
And dance round a green fire.
With the irrigation of the remains
All hands are stained with dead inquiry.