Ferns lavished from the fringe

of unvarnished foundations

a thorn spilling

whole alphabets of milk

speak to the surfaces

and uniform shadows

furnish the graveyards

with spillage of salt wings

I will be rising from bug-lit doorways

back of the shop smoke

to pine in your ruin

first servant to the neon rain

wings tucked in to the trees

bronze face of a torn cliff

gleaming.