4

Given only time 
               and two cracks at it
she groused 
      among the silver scales of morning

I don’t see her around much anymore you?
            Well that’s alright

Some mountains cannot be moved
       The bounced sounds turn up green
              or turn up nowhere

Whose voice is that
   across the way 
 down the ridge

I want to forget what it said

I’m troubling the path but only in a halfassed way
I’m sure not pitching any smoke

  Sourland a former hearsay a heardsay    
                                 a clarification or a scar
       Its streams dry up or trickle on rotation
             every three days

On the first warmish night 
        after a good rain
              we’ll meet at the quarry road to count them

Back home I’ll drop my pines
the minute I get to the core