Because there are no trees nor hope
       for trees & light like this
       means painting the deck red

every year, whorish
       until the first snow, then dull blood
       then tamed beneath a deck chair

& you in it. Because
       there are no birds besides
       a third-class tourist bus of grackles,

the odd consonant of geese,
       your view is undisturbed: cardiogram
       of rock, rise & backlit pass

from God's ring finger. Because
       winter is fickle you sleep
       on redwood (blizzard, bastard sun,

blizzard) & swap out brass
       & touch up spots from March
       to May & the trees,

if there were trees, bulk up
       & chitchat, sweat bees
       whispering Sisyphus,

brush in your hand,
       one color
       in mind, one color.