A choir, beats, orbs of rain explode on the window.
Outside, the fields spread bleakly, the rivers are in spate,
blooming and ripening in their squalid courses. Larches

and spires are tracing paper in the general gloom.
Mounds are pregnant pauses. The long now
is stretched unbearably. The present shock runs

and runs along the rails. The invisible blur.
The urge to elucidate, explain, kills the moment
stone dead. What is left is wood, not trees,

only traces, hashtags. We are incapable of a lie,
yet there is no belief here, yet more leaves fall
blocking the way for those to come.