THEN AS PROOF THE LAND

Because when I write “tree” I mean fire

of autumn. I mean wind moves through the failing

leaves like a man the hue of bark, chased

into that height, into god-hood,

which is a silence. Every cypress

stakes its claim in

what could be called idyll, making a fetish

of the land.

I am the question. Branches answer,

It would be our pleasure, then, as proof, nod closer.