Light floods and no more.
There is a tree angled in the quivering shadow
of what was, of what once passed when fig leaves
coalesced and shimmied at summer altitude—
Light floods—then there is none but
a halo dim and dimming upon a sleep-ridden
city, her patting first, punching second, the rug
and its noumena of dust. She had not seen
snow, the double iterations, like moths, hurtling
to and buzzing around the life source.
The ground is clear, black folds in the mountains
brushed with white wingtips, as she imagined—
such mercy melting in her mouth, falling gently
along the Giant’s hairline on the far post.