Drifts of time
I'm loaded in
trundling desks up stairs in twine
while the chains on the trees watch;
the icicles of faces
walking tar past red barn doors.

Stones with their rectangle feet
in the earth
worm of the flat land
rearing up in shards of mountaintop
digging deep by dead berries
glass in the foot-cut black dirt,
curved lenses dripping
on a stripped trunk
the chime of a rusted swing set
through the mold's rind of forest
flank and thigh bare on a rock tank

leaf-trails fading on the empty path
cubes sliding into a rearguard handprint
grip's vine the birthing mud
a gown of slack branches
a toilet for the sun
scraping tent walls
with the eye socket fossil
oil of a dumpster's lid
landing shut
on the cut up gardens.