There is a spark of being
that somehow leaps the frame.
That vegetable moment,
hovering on the bridge.

Where the sun eats up nothing,
paths quiet and curbed by wet.
Woods flickering with
the life that's in them,
ferns tracking the sides
of a rock fence.

Thuds in the envelope of sky
bringing fire closer
to the welts of purple darkness.

Time on a belt
chopped up by square hands.