Beyond the house, beyond the fence I built
last summer, down the slope I cleared with saws
and brushhooks, past the sycamore too large
for any blade I have, with its hung vines, beyond the trilliums, immaculate
with white each April, vanishing by June,
Booth: Vol. 3
, Article 4.
Available at: http://digitalcommons.butler.edu/booth/vol3/iss10/4