Witch Hazel

This:
That is my straight-flying fury.
And not this:
The dead bone of poetics buried
under sacramental clouds
of sleep or of wine, or too much
awareness of the things that are not there:
Ghosts.

I will make directly through
the woods where the early and late
witch hazel keep blossoms in a long season.
Cut me a switch! […]

Cut me a switch to whip old ghosts
through sunsets to the morning.