How Smoothly Pulse Our Soul Embers

At the edge of the wood: yellow lapping from blue
on the airy night, as with sound waves in the space between atmospheres,
the moon silvers as it does shine bare white legs onto silty frozen mud;
mud under toenails, braced as January's crust glittering,
and a blithely bare neck turned open to the night--
How places and times are not important and frozen.