The casement turns a wall into the plane
where my eyes leak outward into space
lidded hills cracking telescope halls
in the rogue bulk of earth.

The seeing lands sinew my heels
pink acids shape the air with my hands
the portals of a buried ship
lasso stingers through my pores.

Legs of a tin shack
pock mark my forehead.
Tabled light flows and drips
the rounded corners of a dying game.

The edible wings of old bats
aged beyond leather
in a stadium the mind keeps.
Arrows brushing a fresh violin
as they pass the cradled center
and thunk in the backdrop's
vacuumed wood.