"banal conjuring language and then…"

near Triacastela, Galicia, Spain

banal conjuring language and then…

if I wrote this

for compensation

then when I began

I lost the purpose

as though

my loss

were an addition

and I lack purpose

and ambition

but look at this

ridiculous poem

I wrote

without

purpose but

to stir the deep roots

of an ancient chestnut

tree writhing against the rain

and the fog and twisting

cold winds in a forest

damp and dark

peopled with sprites

and fauns and fairies

gathered

in dance chambers

of thousand-year-old

witches hiding their powers

now

in the close

living wooden

chambers

centered

deep within

the trunk

of the chestnut tree

walking all day