Trees yawn into shape
fold for the heart of a hidden season
the clouds hold set pieces in place
where the sun is covered over and blades hum
water is lifted to the color of the earth
whose inhabitants are roving ghosts
in a network of riots and laughter

trees are set down and moss blooms
the ghosts send electric shivers
through their many wires
and retire their ponchos of light
their firearms of nudity
and their sourglass songs
to a recreant abyss
full of recycled flowers
where pistil and stamen write on the air
the octopus of found organic thoughts