Its knots are edges
Of a larger continent.
The dark canals across its
stomach speak:
Once, a tree, and before that,
A vast space of nothing.
Against the pain of growing,
A tide, a mountain
Pressed flat,
A true meridian.
We have borrowed much.
This wind will leave
all things without ridges
or the shadow of ridges.
The hem will run
Into a green horizon.
Clark Knowles 