A continent of moss
across her shingled roof
I kneeled under

watching the light
through a box cluttered window
break into separate molecules

tousled fields of the loon
lifting one grey foot

moon marked desolate throne
alone among the fumbled glasses
of fallen dancers

watching the electric line
elude the horizon
coming in rounded reflections
this ink vein swallowed
scrap's returned cocoon
a pregnant throat's bristle
dark between painted roads
pushing peacock tongues.