They say, Write about what you know. Does one then
write without thinking of what one knows without thought,
for why overcomplicate what one knows, with thinking
extraneously wrought? Doubt anyone knows. Doubt

like a rock. A rock like venom. Venom syrup. Syrup
what?  Lose the thought to find the wonder. Sap
what?  Find the thought to kill the blunder. Rocks
in the springtide, of which the count grows higher

and the crop by the bucket is as much ocean as it is
mountain, as it is rain slowly rendered imperfectly
as horizon broken down and breaking, redeveloped
in membranes of churl-tipped leaf-winged pupae drawn

up greener, transmuted in all the arrogant wealth
of potential, ignorant and muted but for the assymetry
of dark mirrors; each shadow, a catch of the seed
of winter. The trees muscle; the air openly nerves.