If among the clanging of tribes
I try to howl in harmony,
know that it is only a dance,
a straining after processions
that have left me over.

Platitudes rip up in the yielding air,
the strengths of the canal's carvers.
Hang-gliders exchange merciful texts
with no commands.
The grass surfs the ground.

Pinioned roots rear up.
Stones like teeth
wear long caresses
and move a light along.