on the base of this mountain lie
brown pine needles, sharp,
dead sharp, which fell and are fallen,
my footsteps depress this terra languida
who i knew before this shod existence
told me this once-meadow
needed to be observed but not understood.
with each pass of their legislation
they blocked the bright burn that broke
the trees to give each one light,
formulating fabrications legitimizing
the needle who couldn’t lend itself to loam
and is now dark, and cold, and void.
