This out of the same spring called "Idyll."
Where the pine needles bristle, like blue sequins,
the mirrors burn.
So many knuckles for that handful of words,
path springing-- mineral--
out of path, wind I drop through, sleep in, a lobe wrapt
in the plump muscles of a mouth.
Knead and grapple, bury us in that breathing,
for Earth's its own twin.
That pressed, the bodies imprint.
Print canyons, thistles, rise, wet flanked,
from the driven image of our own irretrievable limbs.