For I am equal to the weight of all things,
so sayeth the Lord.

Steam rises up from backs of llamas,
the barn, the weathered wood.

Maple blood their leaves.
In the struggle, what is seen

is carried over and held.
Fence posts blacked by fire,

the moon, small, late-rising,
A bridle hung inside out, froth-stained,

cob-webs on barbed wire,
a glistered heap of dung.

Lifted, onward—
hand-pump sheathed in rain,

hay rake broke down, rusted—
a bell far off—

that the words are not lost,
that apples crushed, rotting on a right-of-way

remain as they are
working deeper into the heart, the heart

overflowing with hemlock planks, shavings
from hooves fresh-shod—

we sing, are riven.