The birds are waking up
in an old way.
I swirl paint into my blood
and listen with open halves
quaking to a full moon.

An eye in the flesh
begs for cream and fresh
underground light
spazzing its virtue
into realms of expanded space
where the dance in fragments
forms a radiating sphere
and spins in waiting.

Web of fire tugging a long note
a grin on a stick
snakes luminous through
tumbling cash
daylight's whisker
on a dry glass
lake's ring of trembling mouths
and marble feathers
past flickering linen
to the velvet waves.