Rimbaud in the concrete closet
ripped rags on the upper floor
buckets of cursive suds
dock's latch of basement block letters
the singing in power lines.

Ridges with the network
frothing torment of vines
curbed outlooks up against
the cream atmosphere
propeller eyes in a sinking delta
peninsulas of salt
from the dawning reef.

Months in motion over the earth
a quiet seat and smile
duck wings flapping wet
on the cooling water.

The empty gaze's
gem of fire
wide paths for walkers
and a blown rail
silk roots of gnarled things
and a flute hewn hollow.