The sea flush shudders with thefractures of bone or animal husks, the lost furs. Only the edges uneasily cover themselves before the sweep of water. There is a dark space at the base of the tree, after the sand, where the hollows were found, and I treasured the blank, glazed leaves left over from a flare of a summer. (We shift to pitch the green.) The ash on the doorposts softened at noon, so I massed the arrowheads together, took down the flags, and brought the buckets meant for rainfall and other things back inside. There is a maturing of the deep, the soil is creaking an aged bond. We can’t help but pool the lake in our pockets and carry this hurtling reservoir in heaps past the branch cavities to the door.
What I buried is pressing to light.