.....

A mole dead in bright grass,
fog on a strawberry field,
the bike path over the bridge
on the river, all clung
to the clouds of flung
feathers suspended in azure and amber
as hills rolled under the vulnerable body
tar breaking in the rhythm of squeezed earth
and the mind is a hearse
clenched within it, an engine
suffering through half-open doors,
dress slack legs stepping feebly out
to examine an unkept opossum body
crushed far from the cloth within
the failing coffin, bankrupting transmission.