Diagnosis

Like they'd done before,trees throw their darkness at him

  Sad with all those thoughts, & looking thin,
he twists inside so often he makes suns see disease in a bud
 
The dark, inconsolable ground of god hasn't crumbled either

The storm that's been promised and slowly freshens in his eyes,
  still does

And til he faces it like a fact, head erect, without even caring,
  he won't see the dawn,

or the circle of fields, white with frost, where the geese settle
  in clayey earth

or the road he's loved to run on, freely and wisely, with the wind
  as his shawl

or the sweep of another cloudless horizon, relieved of angry snow

And til a certain gloomy tree, dressed in grey, catches his eye
  and the geese don't just graze but rise over him,

green-breasted ones with cool elongate necks, wings taut to the sky,
 
and til he says, without once crying, that the bigger they grow,
 the smaller he feels,

he'll see himself object of mourning,again taken suddenly from us,
  sinking into some deep clayey prayer