page 165

Spring

If thunder scaped the sky
carved hill into horizon

jammed earth with heaven,
I always knew it blossomed

from the rusting squatter's shack
at the top of the rise

to the left of the saddle
where the sun dipped.

Of course, it bloomed and branched
in its weightless, laden way—

but what surprises
is how this gnarly cloud of sound

suddenly compresses
spirals through

and stays me
as if I were the boundary marker.