Pantoum for Ennene's Inscription for His Trees

“ He treads once more his gardens in the west, he is cooled under his sycamore, he gazes on plots of fair tall trees, which he himself had planted when on earth.”

Despite progress like this, I drank the raw riverwater. The veil at last lifted.
This is what the reader is offered, the odd remaining oxygen zagging in sunlight--

How it affects our atmosphere. In this world of water, it was a light blue philtre.

Your own embarrassment in regard to it, and those who pass through this

Frequently used door I am glad you have found, clasping at a rail in the sunlight

A door framed by mint and an abandoned nest. I peel and return these conduits

From the brace of memory. Railing less than that, at those who pass through this.

Things seem to be changing, enlarging at their weakest point, my speaking honestly

Is least of my blessings--a flowering branch--building walls to approach its conduit.

Circumspect about the others, an instrument to some purpose. We collage around in order

To find something truly vital and organic. Setting up in the standpipe, expanding this
Movement among two needles, before there were individuals or tomb garden frescoes.

Deciding on a bamboo bureau or uprooting the stand outside, your house is in order.
The woodwork in the vanity, a fell wind shaking the stain in the tracing, washed clean,

As if knowing the way back, water seeps to switch hands, and begin again in frescoes
In arbors and orchards that might have been windows. So many palms plastering the next

Project. Each stem separating through the brake, where kneeling, and rendered clean

There are the minder's hands, and shapes the surface where I drank the river. The veil lifted,

From arbors and orchards, beyond our windows. Our palms dug in the runnels, rooting the next.

While the reality inside does not make anything, except your greeting. Strained through the sun's blue filter.