Mined of its gold
and thrown at the foot of the mountain,
this crown of waves
sows seeds and also steels them.
How this night weather chills even the curtains,
weakens the pin oak just outside. My breath
slows—what is the denominator? A fraction at the base
of a column of air, where we live, sleep.
Pressure is love and erosion.
Dawn frightens, then proceeds
the way of streams.
