Near the cliff's root

dewy lines of frost

catalogued with the last sacred error;

I carry a tripline scripture,

a flippant angel's

dance of grape rain,

filling up the blood readers

and bookshelf mourners

with lines that carry surgical fate.

I tramp around in the laundry screaming.

Spiders of freshly blown glass

are scattered in the afterlife.

They pulse paint, they inject

fertile wires.

I harmonize with a rectangle ceiling.

I fall to the streets with Christmas

lighting, I follow the sights that stream.