In the forks of trees, vagina-tight, a force is hopping hot
under many leaves, the air is staggering through
my nervous system, all driveways are smooth & open
to the entrance of cars. There is no ugly reason now
for worlds to end.

And the truth of a lemon, the layered yellow,
the yellow into white, the beach-chair experience,
all wetness wetter than any skimpy oath,
a girl in summer, locker room metal, drummed
by a steamy array of half-broken hands.

A loyalty shattered neatly into fourths, three bulks
re-united, a bicycle silence, a humming,
a humming in the dragon flys by afternoon. Rotten
place to start, but, a sandy shore re-opened in the fog,
rocks with bitter chemicals in their frozen bellies,
broken under a chisel in the certain rain,
the rain chiseled open by a brighter littler rain,
the rain-birds flying.