know that its composition
was an act of faith—
one stone placed upon another
in the woods.

You may look for meaning here,
but if you find it,
it will be more in you
than in these stones.

It is only fair to warn you that I intend
one day, perhaps between stanzas,
but sometime when I least expect it,
to swallow the world whole—

not in nibbles,
not measured out in spoons,
but all at once—
ripe and succulent as morning.

Do not underestimate the danger
of reading this poem.
The danger it conceals
is its purest gift.

Allow it to destroy
something deep within you—
consumed in the prairie-fire
of your own breathing.

Smoldering and filling the air
with burnt smell of grasses,
let it be for you
the body of a lover.

This is the truest thing I know:
I harvest what I did not plant,
and what I plant
I will not harvest.