Full moon, & the empty tree’s branches─correction─the tree’s branches, expose and recover it, suddenly, letting it drift and rise a bit then swathing it again, treating it like it was stuff, no treasure up there growing more bluish and ablaze, as the wind trussles the wide tall limbs in- telligently in its nervous ceaslessness─of this minute, of that minute─ All the light there is playing these limbs like strings until you can hear the icy offering of winter which is wind in trees blocking and revealing moon & it’s cold & in the house someone is sending instructions. Someone thinks death can be fixed. Inside it is magic, footprints are never made visible. The moon slicks along this human coming and going with no prints to it. The moon all over the idea that this «all» could be (and no one would mind) a game. Noise, priests, provinces, zip codes coil up out of the grasses towards it. Groups seize power. Honor exists. Just punishment exists. The sound of servants not being set free. Being told it is postponed again. Hope as it exists in them now. Those that were once living how they are not here in this moonlight, & how there are things one feels instantly ashamed about in it, & also, looking at it, the feeling of a mother tongue in the mouth─& how you can, looking away, make those trees lean, silvered, against the idea of the universal─really lean─their tips trying to scratch at it─ Until it sizzles in one: how one could once give birth, that’s what the shine says, and that distant countries don’t exist, enemies do, and as for the great mantle of individuality (gleaming) & innocence & fortune─look up: the torturer yawns waiting for his day to be done─he leans against the trees for a rest, the implement shines, he looks up.