Pinned to a jeweled leaf

in the rocks among the pines

curving and laughing

toward the warped sky

into some larger being,

some problematic blade of grass

some mushroom cloud

in fishbowl glass

reeking of intemporal existence,

shedding bark into a bucket

of copper-lashed wood

and the sperm's breath

of exposed cellars

blossoming with ferns

and spider's eggs

of hot translucent light

souls cut by the clock's hands

descending into pinnacles

of dark height

beds wedged into convex ceilings

of milk bones and rolling

parallelograms of color,

all sliding on her fingers

filled with bright ancestral tools

for an astral use.