Stop When We Do

Here vapor

may your faded

dungarees

suffer

as I have done

in my amputations

roll up the absent

pantaloon

and feel

for the sun-cloud

river basin

in the dark morning

ghost color.

Knowing now

how mud clothed

and fleeting the rain

the snow and clear days

have turned the discs

of the apple

fall into the light

like the first

conscious streak

of Chinese yellow.

Through which

I have made

my many visitations.