the longer you gaze at the face
of a limestone cliff
the more beasts
begin to emerge
a puzzle of muzzles
a marl of snarls
don’t call them angelic
they’re not here for you
convening as if
to meditate on a corpse
where the creek makes a brief
above-ground appearance
oh white-breasted nuthatch
with your anxiety song
who’s to say what’s real
in a valley full of sinkholes
bare trees are brooms
for this bitter wind to ride
right into the earth
vibrating where they live
red cedars giving
shelter to juncos
a locust still ornately thorned
against mastodons
threadbare hemlocks
unaccustomed to so much sun
i follow the groundwater
back underground
and my glasses fog up
in less than 50 feet
the creek has gained
echoey voices
that may or may not
be cave divers
drowned in pursuit
of an inner space
hidden from the sun:
a grove of impossible trees
stems said to be slender
as drinking straws
having long ago met
their better halves
growing down
as they grew up
i emerge shivering
into the frigid sunlight
the cliff is empty
i come to no conclusions
at the next farm
a hundred goats
graze their pasture down
to the nubbins
