Is the wound that drives me

drying up?  Will the open windows

bark at the sealed sky?

Is there is a silence

in unbroken stone?

Where the grass bends to print the earth

and bodies have departed

astral fangs and cavernous vapors

race around the pulse

of medicinal trunks.

Their cutting leaves

fly from the blotch of blood

they've left in Rorschach grandeur

on the page of a parking lot.