Mountain

The winds’ faces go into the mountain

Behind me and don’t come out.

There are heads, necks and faces in there.

Moonlight’s grind against earth,

5:00 am, produces dust

Detectable on the tongue, exhaust

From moving circularity.

The pear tree arcing over the shed

Still compressed by the weight of this light hours after.

I put my finger along it to gauge its thickness.

I am in exile.

Ibn ‘Arabi, says Corbin, saw  the huwiya,

Divine ipseity, as the Arabic letter ha,

Suffused, scarved with sun, placed on a red carpet;

“Between the two branches of the ha gleam the letters hw (huwa,

He), while the ha projects its rays upon four spheres.”

Idle pear tree.

The shed rolls forward

Each corner on the heave of a warm back.