Beehive huts they call them, where they weathered the seasons wintrous at the wane of waxfroth deliria, these hibernateria of moss and stone. A fit place for anchorites, huts that root the sky in fields ajut with sapthorn and bloodwort splint at sacred well-edge and land’s and feeling’s end.

Wound in my springing Green boughs of hope Bare limbs are clinging Across every slope

Monitors I call them, as, cowl down, I view my moss-green screen, tapping my keys against kingdoms gone, poem-processing, image-downloading, casting lines the color of trout’s shadow and fingering the chip that hides memory paler than pale and beyond, even unto the sands that mount at moon of monk’s tide. The summons is the same: 0 portaddress byte is my DOS office today, a runic vocative for a porter to a doorless hut But such a sky-glutted port.

Warm in my summers Glut of my grain Fragrant with thunder’s Ascent on the rain

It is the regular structure that is sought: the threads of prayer and program, regular like the turning of a flat earth, a skull-smooth disk, or like Brendan’s boat, hulled for soul’s harvest

Firm in my falling Withering grace Blackbirds are telling Of gold on the haze

Terminal hut, bee-strummed, it is a console still But consolation drowns in winter’s chill The system will abort: that is all we know Alone with secrets of the stones.

Lost in my winters Sullen and stark Course through my center 0 spring in the dark