Rivers in my hands
still flowing I am somewhat grateful
to the oblivion of things,
clouds atop goldenrod
puking puffs of white light
prow's knife in the soil of summer
an erected madman
slapping his face with sandals
on the steaming shore.

Nuts and bolts holding
red painted bodies
long hallways through
pulse of trees drinking
all the names of the sun
a yellow leaf on each eye
a seedpod's violet taper
touching buttons on the raw
embankment.