Pillow hills throbbing back lit fringe
burrowing sky
touched bark and scratched air
flowing in teams of light
particles over the river
slugs dying in tandem
warped and melting pairs of walls
pudding for vast sky ships to pour into
thuds of aching earth pricking into the aftermath
of harmed skin and blood over the concrete
slimming time and sidewalks
talking through the power lines
with the voice of an articulate baby
who needs meat to land on
and is no hostage of perhaps a mask
man of leaves
in my humming I am a vibrato vein
for the pickle or freeze sleep of a silent wind.