Watercounty

Put the one white thing in the world in the painting,
Leave a level camp from where the ascension begins.
The olive limbs and locally madrona
Trunks scheme to forget you the truth sins.

That’s how the one white thing remains―
Not telling what it wants or cares.  
And just to put the white one there
Brings your face to the timorous edges

Of the leaves, of their scheming bounty.
Then put the wrong done into the watercounty
And color in the rag weave where the light fledges,
Revealing an impeccable lode of earthly stains.

     Whether to deliver is your only concern;
     Nothing of him, but on the grass a yellow burn.