Shore pine on the sea cliff,

perennial axletree on which

stars wheel—waves of the highest

high tide have half-unearthed

its hold. The intricate rootwork

that like sight of the covenant’s ark

none should know, hangs exposed:

rainwashed, rope-thick roots scaffold

the vacancy where cliff was, and ends

of ripped rhizome, thread-thin,

pulse droplets like rosaries broken

continually. The upper canopy un-greens

needle by needle; the low notched

branch-ends interlock to gnash

in wind. Even its sudden hush is a harsh

suspension between constellation’s cog

and log undressed by waves, ring by ring.

The immanence of no returning

deity inheres in its last distress.

It is a high unblessed separateness,

at last. At last, it is relentless.

—Brandon Krieg