even the dustiest little hamlets
offer a glowing window,
brandywine to be poured,
leaving sticky residue on a scrubbed table
peering from between dripping branches
neither coming nor going
I have nothing but time.
Fairy rings and natural burial,
auric energy hovering just above the forest floor
mosses and lichens conceal me
and ebb upward toward my closing eyes.
Clamor 