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crafting alone on a lunar rock
burnt brick hands sifting
the long slow winds of space
calling names into nameless places

we loft three fourths up the peak
of a pine furred tree
turn heels on ailing bark
and fall down oxygen-torn heights
streams no traveller has heard of

call down the sound of their own body
from above surrounding, drag
the engine lives across a rearing deck
skin and wood reacting
humbly to sunlight, eyes are not eyes
in the canine portion denied, moments
are dying without spasm
and the pools open up between aching trunks

spores raining, moss retreating,
the frost dominant and the air stricken
with ashen birds red-beaked
men of silence and blood
clamoring at all the windows

streaked minutes of music
starts the food cooking
and the stairways tremor-clad
for ascending life
those footsteps breaking rock
that have crawled your spine every hour
while you smiled under a bundle of faded sins
bucking a hollow anchor

the undertow in the blood plays
many notes on mopstick bodies, eating mouths
hot waterbleach look to the eyes
finally all the houses are singing