a morning spent
treading on the genderless spirits
of angels trapped in the underbrush
all of us destined to return
again and again unless
we beg to diffe2
unless we decline the invite
and simply refuse
to come
back

mixing memory and direct perception
same old same old movement into unfathomable detail

along a wayward path scrambling toward the outcrop
of rock and bramble, long early morning light
raking across the embankments, highlighting this and that
while the rest falls into shadow

this is not a metaphor

thinking back, seed pods
must have rattled as I passed
there must have been the hum and buzz
of insects flitting by or busy
buried in the brush
there must have been a faint record
of my own breathing as I tramped
but as of here and now
I am not able to recall
any sound
at all