Octaves pouring out of the ground,
symmetry in motion,
destabilized text spilling
from the top of a smashed head:
acres of rot in the core
of a baby plum tree's trunk,
shivering and seeming near,
fogged in a thicket of alphabets
hugging my boots
and their precious mud to my chest,

fully out-maneuvered
by an unmoving thing,
both inside and outside of me:
engulfed by islands,
their breakage and surf and invitations,
boat landings for an infamous
and naked ass,
the flat and ragged stone
under the water
singing to familiar feet.