Shells cling to each tree
all the way down the line
because it’s the still cool night.
The trickle sound of the late ones
pushing their fat
slick bodies
up from the dirt.
The crunch of abundance of them
juicy under our morbid feet. The trees in rows,
but was this a gardner’s intent
or a thing that the trees do themselves?
Don’t some do that? Am I making this up?
Do the ones among the roots
care about the lines?
No image down there-
their eyes are closed.
No sound under the ground.
No cairns or etchings
or meaningful mosses
or howls of sign-wolf-
no starting gunshot-
no astrology in dirt
no shinto in the shell.

what are the rules of shells breaking?
what are the caring rules?

Their sound blasting like silence now so strong and constant
that the moon must be yellow and enormous- tonight one thing
elicits another.

The cool air like water like nighttime

your feet like children’s feet

your pity like your mom’s pity

The humming sawing song moving
like grass under inconstant wind
seen from far off-
green to lighter green to green,
your weight
like the unflinching
sky because adjectives exist only in dreams
and gods only between trees that grow in lines.