Trees rolling whole
as spokes in wheels,
coffee in the goblin's throat,
the dream of being the one
unclouded visionary, rescuer of all
worthy worlds, a mopper,
watcher of gears
hidden to task after task
pisser of motion-lit backwoods
caught rolling the red dice
into a wind tunnel
bellowing steel and wood
into tubing and pipes and wire.

Fourteen voices from
a visage ten decades wide.
Candles on the birdbath skull,
the rounded shoulder of a peacock hatchet
a flying heel,
a string of winged daggers,
masks of wool and dumb weather
whip-poor-will graces in the hummingbird shelves
holes in the prized paper
shitting its old thoughts
hymns to the rattled heart a hundred forty years
of wood and tablature
restored to grass,
the mountains leering.