from A Dearth of Prose
These are hands in minutes, seconds, days
and trees before they blossom
whose clouds return rainless
and eulogize the sunless.
Mountains reaching permafrost layers
to something higher
where the pine of a Brabant country
spills itself into the bowels
of an old mine, and reaches down tendrils
into the unlit damp,
and brings up the canary to fly.