Presence

Bring on the unborn, the as-yet 
       unreleased—let the sand trap 
convex, turn mechanism 
       at the throat's base, beating 
gold with the threat of steeped 
       branches, bleating over and 
over-tired till the hash 
       of rain no longer treads 
lightly, thrushes hunger 
       fallowly abroad, chest whips 
tree-long, under its own 
       houses, its burnished hair— 
pockets of evening menace, 
       oiled scallions, roots catalyze 
the pot into ash, the pan 
       into blackness, banging 
ceasingly the steel-cut 
       edge—let knees be a flicker 
of over, feet find light sleep 
       under ribs—seahorse battling 
affliction of undamaged 
       fluid, meadow in the hip of 
presence, angled forward 
       till only grass, only field-rot, 
finds blooms—now harkens, 
       multiplies to a thousand  
entitlements of solitary 
       leaves—for once commands 
mutter forces, smatter 
       darkness to the inner ear—