I saw a girl brush her hair there, once-
but became rushed into the sparrow's eye.
A refracted patter from a rise of pine,
marooned to pining with sawdust filigree-
to cling to twist to turn to needles
in the sappy knot of walking away.
Something since has sintered the evergreen
into a sinistral stump of weeping silence,
from that dust up to a musty pedigree
I have grown aphasic in the orange muster
of a lattice sun and ovulate cones.
I saw a girl brush her hair there, once,
or so the sparrow seemed to song.