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Brother of rubber wheels is gone to the wild low country
   for ten slugs on the bones of Jesus:
     one slug on the skeletal vortex
          to hold the world in place
        for the bones to stay breezeless
           unrevealed and wanting: the rest
          for show of life, to ooze
              in movement on what is dead


 Brother of rubber wheels is gone
            quite raw in the head
                from all the defunct centuries
              piling on top of each other,
                to little effect: love and evolvement
            have left him out, to bankrupt
                his insides: and the meek hills
              and the shearing mountains
                  rise up in anger to cry
               the same song to the same interior


  His lionesque head
                                of healing ozone