Along the ground
in a g-string
and feathered hood,
first body from
the core of the world,
making the sun and moon
see.

Criss crossed pines
on the fuming ground,
borders rubbing together
earth's gash clenching
wheels of rubber.

And the wayward path
loaded with golf balls,
pocked orbs stomped
under the root's emptiness
at every step.

A cold gun fired
inside the reaches,
tugged at by the webbing
of the mind,
trying to find the right
moment to erode,
the proper rift between waves
that draw deep
to lie down in.