driving by, one glances quickly to the side
in there, the mysterious un-mystery
bathed in its half-light
the trunks ... their wreptful limbs
queer the mind: perhaps a siren call
calling you in

there, in the middle of the small woodlot
a patch really
but the trees grow tall with aching for the sky
one's glance bounds from edge to edge
collisionally finding finally
the mysterium un

how now the random oak with burnished plumage
still
amongst the kindren stand of species earlier let
whose leafed cloakery had fallen already before
humus and beetled to lacery thread

this woody part here and another there,
until the great open field
so different and yet so same
mysteriously familiar
the geometrically imperfective perfect lines
stretch pleasingly to the vanishing point
the crop has been shaved and hardly
a stubble remains
suggests the arching spherical compass
with its neatly featureless thrust
this,
contradictum opposite
of the gnomic woods
yet in its sheer expansively pure singularity
exquisitely bland sameness
unwordless descriptionlessness
row upon row upon row
how can it not be pleasing to the gravid eye?
to a mind seeking center
in the gravity well of this
harvested stretch?

could the Sirens lie there
limned into the rows
their call would be no less
penetrating
than where the Trees with their branches wrept
unto the fastness
play the light and fashion
secret places for your restless urgings

a flock of birds,
starlings I imagine
two days now
encamped at the even
by a stretch of this road
the one side a couple naked trees and
the other the telephone wire
you can see them massed either-wise there as you
come up the slight
and they are flying
flying
flying
flitting several from this side
a bunch from that
back and forth

and forthand backagain
as you pass right beside you can hear their
frantic chirp
or who knows? their measured song
what some, not hearing the music, might call a din
a split second and you're by
but you watch them flying, noiselessly, from the
one side to the other
in the rear-view
for as long as you can

so -
trees, fieldrows, the restless birds
wrept severally and all into
their hidden meanings
their callings and
lightings
their movements and
stillnesses
here lofted into light
and lifted by deepening waves
or there sown to the yonder horizon
on the arch of the Siren’s syllable
which
heard in the midst of the mad bird thrilling
is wrept, like the soaring branches
in your mysterious
golden
Heart