Wrapped in the result

of these barren days

I become an astral flower,

tides of orange paint

cover the staircase,

shadows of searching fingers

the spokes of enraptured wheels

formed from living water,

tubs of rotten wheat

that give birth to

a wounded slew of eyes,

the entropic mercy of rusted metal

planted in the camera's guts

a butterfly's blinking knives

the desert soaked in galactic color

a row of tribes

climbed cliffs of milk

to nuzzle roots

of the tongue tip mother,

laid out the breathing stones

with names and dried stripes

of bloody fur, the frames

of a desolate professor

unlearned by yearning rifts

between male and female.