The pines up the mountains are red in the dirt
all the way through the earth
to Spain
a name forgotten ever existed
Enters the world like morning
a cut the size of mountains
there is no sound only blood and coal mined out
in dirt
and what you believe is in the yard
an old voice left
only in the dirt
Has knifed the life of silence
and cannot talk yet steaming
red sopping in the pine trees up the mountains

– 9 Dec 62

Originally published in White Wall Review 40 (2016)