Branch Song

Why think of the once anchored past floating

away from a minor boundary or a standard

form of inquiry? Bring your vision to this cloth

knowing that plans only function as provisional,

as though to rob simplicity from a minor cloud.

Look up at midday. Your mind builds a galaxy,

distracts vision from surplus: that rough surf turns up

and up but it only distracts from what’s along

the sand. To gratify your imagination would fall into myth

of carrying gold lightning away from rain clouds, combining

tranquility with words stitching from thoughts. Nothing past

stars horizon-bound or stars along this road, a turning away

from sky but now air falls down to vision, a difficult

thought to forgo id, to shift acorns from burning to burn.