A tadpole sun
in its silver slime of clouds
fog drilling tar through rubber afternoon
while steps of shadow selves
collide all around the torn up shrubs
gravity's hold gone lost glove in a tide pool
ripped roots and soil's water floating up
to slap a sea of helmets on descent
suds on the new wobblers
mesh on tin over shrunken faces
the day our bellies slapped together
and sent lunar through a small tunnel
an anvil's tongue
the arm of an ax
big aching web
boiled down to a stuck dot.