Mornings the past comes back, a series of landslides.

And the sun comes back. Awash in sleep

you sought rest in the mineral dark where colors ripen.

Now you watch air’s breath cross pond like a hand on a horse.

Happiness to have wandered into the future perfect,

a place in the mind with a past of its own, a past that hasn’t happened yet.

Happiness of rain. Of tune’s marrow in old song.

A cloud the size of a small town drifts slowly eastward.

Ferns begin the long descent into coal.

Plants in the window: on the floor moonlight has printed their images.