The ledge pours
green water and uneven furniture,
branches to break on
above webbed rocks,
bent birches and seedlings that stab,
blood from the lowest dip in the pool,
the crackle of a speaking ear.

Moss parts on the rock,
the stone clit is a prism
the sun gets stuck in,
to be evening, to rip liquid,
blow vine through hosiery,
ruffle the rags
on a peak encampment,
and circle the irregular dome
to drip sap from helicopter blades
into rivulet trays.

The bright electricity
of punctured rooms,
blades of delayed bodies
pushing air in parallelogram cubes,
setting a pointed star
of threshing floors,
the summit's flaking skin
a lidless eye pressed to red mica
in the hinge between worlds.