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.