By stealth we took from the wood
when the wood was asleep
the arms of pine, the rings
they made of the years—
We hid them on straw
in the bed of a truck,
under rocks that once
helped the river reflect
the moon’s shattered face.
This is not a dream
I’m telling you—
We threaded our way
through switchback trails
and lied to the border
police about what cargo
breathed in the resinous dark.
In a valley we let the blind
rocks go, then stripped
the honey from each plank
of pine. We made of them
an enclosure for air,
a lattice of space begat
from a chamber of green.
That house is no more—
One day the earth sent tremors
through rafters and walls;
the years withdrew
what we took without gift
of coin, without blood
struck from a copper gong.
In response to Via Negativa: Submariner.
Wow. Good one!