In winter, among laws of probability
     the quiet ones merge
into earth. They sort the fertile chaos
      from flat statement.
What they derived was vital & vast,
a justice outside our usual music.
     Packed into again dry ground
          the eye-
          shapedseeds point south :::
sprout, yonderlings! We’ve been in touch
    with the king of thieves
          who keeps our health; all
          the wild noons hang down.

i sort the troubled jewels of intention,
i count the half-rings of the owl,
i ponder my petty resentments
     & can maybe keep
     two of the twenty-four (ponder
yonder ponder yonder); weak one,
     don’t pretend you’ve seen enough
     to change the ratio—
     (then a whatness
seeped from the lining of our hearts,
& let us switch tones to survive—)