The dead-purple woods hover on the west.
I know those woods.
...where the wild myrtle grows,
I let my jo-reet loose.
A jo-reet is a bird. Nine weeks of summer he
sat on a well-bench in a screened box,
A stick inside to walk on,
Better turn him loose before
cold weather comes on.
Doom caving in
any pleasure, pure
Beyond the wild myrtle, away from cats I turned him loose
and his eye asked me what to do, where to go;
Don't look at me. Winter is coming.
Disappear in the bushes...
Go south. Grits is not available in any natural form.
Look under leaves...
They're good woods.
But lay me out if a mourning dove far off in the dusky pines
A. R. Ammons: "Hardweed Path Going."