Brown hills, on Milton’s mind, were loaves and sent
out of my brain to feed him when he went.
He called me food and solace, and he strew
me on his way among the hills.  I grew (apace).

I called him carpenter.  He took my bread
to carve along the grain, and grew a head
of highways, scattered up and gone
along the threads of earth I breathed upon.

Then I breathing sank and, sank and breathing, drew
a carpenter to earth and his highway too.

First published in Fulcrum