mussel heaps: with
the turd mace I parted it,
following the rivers into the melt-
ing homeland
of ice,
toward it, the firestone
to be scratched
in whose hand in the
dwarf birch breath.
Lemmings burrowed.
There is no later.
No
nested urn, no
breakthrough disc,
no starfoot
fibula.
Unstilled,
unlinked, artless,
the all-transforming climbed slowly
scraping
behind me.
