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In full flight from reason,
the robin-faced man stood down
from a menacing picnic table,
running the irradiant waffles
of his stamped and molded form
spiraling to mechanania
slowing the eye in flesh
that cannot veer from its tomato-dark,
its darker than melon insides
and shivering cliff-side decline, emergent
in showers of earth from a bearded sand-pit,
the shaking of laser light
from a banished canyon.

Molten with hurt feathers
he repositioned himself
with the dustpan eyes of a goat
next to the superior water.
He grew with inner life until
the crests of cities blew loose
their crawling vines of oxygen's prize
as if with him in mind
then fell shuddering to rifts of pine bark,
gardening in the remains of his stomach mind.