Insidious precision,
Displayed as the arranged bones
Of agreements about terms,
What they suggest, what they mean,
How they can be connected
To distilled experience,
The snowmelt, rain, creeks, flash floods
Filling lakes of memories,
The landscapes of lavender
And rolling saffron meadows
Spread near those glacial green waves
From which the ghosts rose as fogs
And left as clouds for other
Lands, to gather in other,
Similar lakes, what is there
To say that has not been said?
It is written. It has been,
Over and over again.
But the bones can’t stop moving,
Dissolved in peat, turned to stone,
Feeding lives that wait for them
At the bottom of the lake
Insidious precisions.
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