I lay my dark and spiraled finger
against pure and corded wildwood,
In the wailing current
of the rich wheels of wilderness,
Before the sonant vesper
of dreaming by a worshiping colt,
Shielded from sheaths of stone
by a tree marked in enfolding moss;
The flashing tongues of rolling air
in fluent, black, and breathing flesh,
Smoking in its morning cloak
of great, weaving...
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