In the pupil,
in the memory,

in the dry dun tide
where the bars of our skulls

call down lightning
and wild borders blur—:

A signal, a supplication,
a grass paint incantation—

Come emerald, come kelly,
come jade. Come vapor,

come billow, come milk
from the mountain clouds.

Come morning, we beetle
to the dunes, we hike up

our hind ends, we trap fog
with our hard wings.

You fruit of great price.
Do the mint kiss.

Now do the rivers.
Now do the scars.