Thursday, December 22, 2016

Over hills ribbed as carcass,
over rivers that gleam,
I am stalking my infant
intuition, that only the sun

Touring emptied ponds
and water-lanes lined
with half-rotted leaves
and scum, the secretive eye
of a muskrat.

Dashing nude to the vines, the vapor,
the sight of snakes, the well
of the ground breaking open
like bread.

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