Soaked in the information of stillness,
I found the moon too chaste—cut at the source
of its language.
Night, green with blue:
ready for the ladder’s fame
before mountains turned into an idée fixe.
Months into my sea
psyche, I still wake up
with this land
in my head—cornered somewhere, missing a wall
or some edge,
a ladder shows up lighter than its own breath.