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.