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A familiar mystery
sends out its ribbons
whose sticky ends tug
at granite cornerstones or what squirrels gather

epics unborn, that still simmer in the blood
what doesn't come forth, is wielding somewhere
a whole landscape of the unfettered, who fell
and the weight of ascension

the halves of a shell are many moons
even light, from heat only, is pliable

you'll find that gravity has
its flowers in ripples
a reaper in the backyard with eyes glazed
the years felt in a foot
that pulps the garden
vine dangling from nowhere in particular
will not be grasped by a hand
spiders would move that way on the hearth
of the end of spiders
the life in chalk-white eggs
longing for universe