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. . . or lifelight, whose hooded path through the dry trees
powders moss-smut and bark as I walk by,
all of us: poplar, ash, white chute of cloud
remark your passing and turn after you
unconsciously, with lowered eyes or leaves, assays
of word or mist, that fix you in a rush-mat sky.
Bright canter, whose plumes arc loads of static
in every live receiving dish; bored traveler,
whose molt of hydrogen and carbon plumbs
wastes light takes millennia to cross; cave dweller,
whose actions slip, too absolute for thought,
a whole niche from the periodic table,
dusting nickel with a froth of platinum---
the plumes recorded by our satellites
charge in the wind that stirs your gravid lakes
of helium, whipping dust spouts and vortices
that curl, and billow, carded with black spots.
Torn grass and cloud defray your stack of heat
and scatter it like straw, leaving you at day’s end
roaring outside the safe house of our sleep.