In the piecemeal
dawn, I cut a rough swath through a loose choreography of trees, stamp
underfoot sterling tips of grass, upset the composite elements reticulate
in every detail: root, stem, bud, spore, the silent engineering of cells,
the hermetic architects of honeycomb, wood-snail, bone-rot, laboring all
at once, rearranging the view as I walk from one end of the park to the
other and back, and count each addition, each subtraction superstitious,
compulsive as if I could ever solve the equation of cloud and fern, root
and nail, torso and hand my hand when it pushes aside a leaf specially
designed to extend, slightly, from the branch, and catch the vital nutrient
of a star pooling random and green at my feet.
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