When even solitude fails to comfort,
and the sky is stripped bare by human terror,
my fever walks on many paths,
looking for an accidental light,
intrigued by melting branches in the net of a bridge's fence,
staring at dark water, all my vacancies humming,
hooked by a swooping machine that knows no location,
taking me to amplified heights, abandoned corners,
seats where the damp wind has worn the ground thin and weird,
planes of beaten soil that fit the curve of the body,
hillsides streaming with plastic numerals in a thick soup,
hospitals with sheathed and hacked-up parking lots,
my ankles carrying wounded blood, and the tree-tunnels
that I stalk hungering with moss, with white cucumber root,
for the sinking of my knees in mud, arms like dragonfly wings,
as the pine's fallen things crackle under my wordless wail,
and I bang on the lack of hope with my tin pan head
til it gives way to green fury.