To Be Ascetic

There is a picture
of an orange tree, picture

coarse leaves, water droplets
sent-up light, the plots of oranges
in the evening that has fallen on them.

The mountains.
This little hustler
in shorts.

Regardless of it, it is burning.

You are asking
in the middle of the tree, upwards,
in its way a system

look, one orange

jigging the tine
and the thing stem
the unready
the moth


The wolf to you, like a blunt cusp
in the yellow grass;
pale and hard at dusk,
in the angled grass, the dusk,
spitting in your hair,

None are to you, are under,
the soft dirt that's dust
part-jutting root, the brush

to be beneath, the orange
on the back of the tree
that over arches,