A text of stones in the corner of a yard; the yard is low, bounded by neat angle of stack-wall. Grass spans out and dutifully fans from the old head of the yard. The presiding angels of the place cling from berries of the yard’s spreading bush—plans of other bushes begin here, and here. That cropped corner of hall takes a turn and dips on its side, pulling out of view by a dropped wing of bramble; there, boxy house-forms perched on a wire in near distance. And from brambles arise the tight angles of pipe-forms, mouths open—tapped for their sonorities by the kicks of arrant spring grasshoppers, and the sounding fingers of presiding angelics. And right angles plan on each other, topple each headfirst into turf, turfy backs are made low peaks in troweled layers of air. As a first autumnal current runs the passes, and turns the flags bounding the scene...from a topward view one sees the stones left in yard’s crumbling corner, with the parliament of angelics adjourning. They talk from seats hung in the bush.
-2001
