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It hides in-between the birches. It flickers. Hide and seek.
How mystery winks. An apparition of deer. The candle of
his tail back into dark.
The chinks in the forest.
The winks of
light into zebras on the forest floor. Stripes undulate into
currents. Trees smuggle the Sacred. But the souls kept
skipping into leaves, bark, wrinkles, fissures, stalks, husks.
The trees, the smugglers of cemeteries with rings of psalms.
They compete with children on All Souls’ Day. From many
winged seeds the taproots hum the Book of Hours. They
dart like finches. There is no way to fix them. They hide in
cracks and whispers. They listen. To what is not. They are
brief and violent. They unconceal. They burst forth. Theirs
is unveiling. They will light the continent for me. Tigers of
wrath and light. The trees are not without Kaddish.
Mimosas, Pagodas, Figs and Rowans. The soul composed of
very small atoms produces small dream-stations.