Liquid metal they used to sun. To make a mirror float. Float mercury and floating molten

The sun returns to glass. A simple body of water on which the mirror roiling made alive

The roil of piercing birds. The small pond punctured. The dead blue sky. Small, they say

The sky in burning alive. Leaves piles of leaves in the small flock of flame against light

Dying in the sun.

swensen 1


Liquid metal they used to sun. To make a mirror float. Float mercury and floating molten

The sun returns to glass. A simple body of water on which the mirror roiling made alive

The roil of piercing birds. The small pond punctured. The dead blue sky. Small, they say

The sky in burning alive. Leaves piles of leaves in the small flock of flame against light

Dying in the sun.

swensen 1

 

The sun strobing through a line of trees the even trees, even trees can shred one

Rag staved. Hangs the wind in shapes. When there is wind. Into a dozen or so flimsy

Boats on a backwater arched. Back in the small creek. It leaps. Saw a horse drink and a taller

Horse next. A dozen horses in an open field, open horse and on we go into the hand-made

Time of a horse lying down in a green field.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Quiet lights the often fog and can’t you say exactly where. December evens the grey

Wash. Grey and new green that could have been rain. A long line of greenhouses and small

Boats tied up along a bank, young plants under white canvas arches until another river

Passes, fewer boats and longer, a house built for summer will rain upon rain.

swensen 2

 

The sun is a thrush, thrust up against a falling pale, is falling into sheets, it falls in and sees

Through sheets of brittle light on some series of birds. Cold in trees. In three rows of

Lines of trees slipping past like passing screens, the screens slip on vast thin sheets of ancient

Rain of walls of doors. You slide the screens to change the world. Which yet retains its lines

Of trees and remains migrating trees through a heap of rain.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A river so slow its island is also. Clouds off the sea low in touch. On the top

Touches down. A walking song. Held open on. The black of a bird alone. The bird

Is as black as the only one.

swensen 3

Rain makes a pretty town. Leaves or is seen receding. Black car down a black road. More

Pile of stone, neat. Boats in neat rows. Row through the early morning on a gentle loss of form.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the presence of. The lack of the tops of trees. Has light replaced, the light that is

Gold, the constant return, that we cannot see light enter the cells of the trees, nor

What leads on there, the path down to the cells below the trees.

swensen 4

A ringing in the dark sky over light with no light inside. The trees. Sharp and walk. On is

The one the picture can’t find in the dark, the dark forms run. The eye is outdone, outward

Trees adrift among the trees both dark and soon. The dark hides thousands behind the

Millions of living things in the dark they line up. They march the ancient routes they all

Retrace. And they move. The routes across without crossing because an evening is the

Dark without a sound.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The trees are all ago. And on go the trees. Life way over there at the bottom

Of a hill we almost see. It moves. The hill goes on. The horizon still. The horizon

In its shore. Goes low. We wide across the plain in little fires, little burning

Times that point. On and so a storm.

swensen 5

Miniature horses in three corrals. Heads down. Way over a harbor of one. White

Spire, sharp. Spire, none. Way harbor made yellow, a field in flower, the yellow

Just a little, shredding through trees. And a middle in stone. Tower or something

That once was a tower. Harvested forest into birds upon time. Now all the horses

Black in birds that climb. They climb past the line of lights evenly spaced. The line

Of lights away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That distance will live all the trees into rooms. All the room in trees grates the winter

To edges. One tree in winter combs all winter to pieces, very fine pieces fall from sky

To sky, sharpening the sky.

swensen 6

Sudden flock of gulls across a flock of grain. Back gaining mist. Mist takes them

Farther Into trees. The walking trees of the migratory route of the seed by seed

That suddenly awake. A small farm barely grey. Small canal held in force. Force

Of trees that were not there. When you looked up the trees had gone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Town arranged along its river, its own, owning to ever. Benches on passing

Water the passing softer and slows the afternoon. Sifted willow. Woman combing

Her hand through the water behind her on a bench a man is reading the paper.

swensen 7

The long broad river winds off, looks and turns back on itself, copper in muscle, muscle

In silver, in lead was a mirror and that was calmer. And made a river of water. The water

Walked over the meadow like the line of bare poplars walks over the field. Slow. Mist

Walking also a man who walks faster than trees in his grey mist this more intimate winter

Into which is walking and the trees recede.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A paved road taking place: it is grey and the patient forest in the forest as it passes

A sudden catch of blue or it blooms its clouds in water. As if windows in the field. Slit

The windows open. And the field opens and the field of sky. The bright Day turns

The clouds white. One more white in the bright field. In the window where the clouds

Row deep inside an east.

swensen 8

Are the trees whose green leaves are backed by silver. I don’t know their names turning

In the grey wherever there the light, what small light is taken in. Tree with light painted on.

Then tree with white flowering vine one after the other with what light there is. 

 

 

 

 

 

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