Like a god coming out of the earth,
a split fortune, dogged upon
the grass-growing bones,
flowering from a body of skulls,
torn between the pierced aristocrats
and the floating beaten,
picked up like a sod,
chucked against the roving van,
rippling across the many colored sky,
teething his way toward
she who is a crushing elevator
and a dew-struck frond and a crone,
vines ripped from his torso
that are laid into her questioning hands,
a unit of sorrow,
the cotton along a singing blade,
clay surface's melted embroidery
a tire shadow's ring of pants
and her forgotten shirts
as they ascend with the sun lit fog.