.....

From the bivouac  sacked
   flip the cash-bag      wine stomach
       disturbed map        blinking
           white canyons fogged in
               past the blade of each shoulder,


     the prison-escapers  with birdhouse heads
       urging: onward the tugged bridge,
              interlocking rust,
         weirdly angled fables
                            that find canvas
       at the edge of a chopped-off city


 vapor lighting its catches
         love making in the net of echoes
                     where town after town bubbles
                       up from the crust of pustule earth


 The stellar nipple expanding
   old fond maple
     criminal in an ink dress
       slither down my name