These thousand oaks that before leaves
Tie ink dark knots against the blue
Of April sky yet can not net
The liquid light, the laughing light.

They root and lift and lean and slant,
Only by stance communicate.
Their branches make horizon words
A maze, a place, asymmetry.

Here now I sit who knows not how.
Here now I see who knows not why.
Hear, now, I say, who knows not when
The liquid light, the laughing light

Will send me back this way again,
For I am light and slight and sleek
And as a fish slips pursed nets,
Slip pursed lips, two lips, to be.


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