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Mountain Mahogany
Noctilucent clouds
Purple light on the hills at night—
Something halfwit grand about
mistaking the air over mourning
doves' wings for the teakettle,
warm in here, inside the war
of ears - which one will point
a touch out toward the clearly
relevant silence no sound
can pull the air outside of
when wind makes my house a flute?
It's odd to call it a deed, but
the combed over rabbitbrush
and yellowy pollen which
covers my knee all changeably
Interfingers me: with wind-shape,
as with any thing strewn across
the mouth and part of its skillset,
what you reach out with matters,
the poor descendant tongue licks
various animalcules as it calls
up the well-balanced semblances
that hollow the scraggy looming
of mountain mahogany, thorny
on the ridgetops, big gaps between
much that is ear-rendered and calm
and much else that is neither
but then touch is much clearer
on the subject of wind than
wind is, though wind is passing
clear on the subject of dust
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