The Ginseng Hunter Explains
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To what I can’t hear I am always listening,

hard as it gets each day
to remember convergence, this leaning

of foxglove over the sage
like a silent alarm: where is the oak?

Where is the oak?

Rainwater curls in the hole.
No note from the landlord, “sorry––the city,”

etcetera, “hazard”
and “fine,”––all the usual reasons we give

for not wanting the trouble
of life,

and so on and still endlessly on wheels disaster,
seeding little deaths like money.

Here’s where my elbow squares to the door,

every hair points
to the shadow unlocking its suitcase.

Who am I kidding? Really the only
terror we face is the truth about God (Who is Love),

and we know what that means, but we’ll never
be able to say it.

Now where the oak spread
its gospel of green between neighbors

there are houses standing apart
without touching:     rise,     o ghost,

from my door

to that roof in an arc of electric blue,
for I fear

She’s forgotten me, root branch and twig.