Pit-sawn

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.