Wait each new moon,
make burn lists. Bury after
light; barefoot push the shovel.
Pull earth up, skies down in self
and recall — make minerals of you;
an iron in clouds yields the site.
^ A trifle for the new moon & crooked-mouthed realizing it’s no-joke-too-late for a convent.
Jacaszek playing, and Richter’s Iconography; the latter always the black drive to high desert in snow storm; the only car on the pass and sensation of leaving the Earth.