An ageless geography,
this dizzying Sisyphus that defines
the tremor of knots & water, classification of a mile-hymned
absence shorn of breath & bismuth. For its excess,
an abdication. A victory sizzling
the compass glass,
the dinging, a beacon for what’s lost
& hungered. There’s nothing
here to covet.
Of what’s been asked
across the oscillating apse,
which question is the one to strain?
All strung out in axes,
asp & aspen
both sense the same direction.