The holdout of brook-glitter in a drought,
the skittery edginess of leaves against a windy hedgerow
I sit out of the way by the brookfalls
looking in places too drab for pilgrimage
for revelations such
as the sun’s surviving the all-day splintering
of running water, the
water broken, too, over and over into falls: stones hear
or say my verses:
brookbanks set out
staves of music for me:
I put the bars in, I take them out, I move them around.
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