lion in the grass.
I perpetuate my own
mythology.
Predators pass through me
and I take their entrails.
The grey men, the ashen men
in corners, I know
where they live.
I am the line stretching
between silence and chaos.
The words for land rise
out of the strummed
channels of my throat.
The light grooves
and all is ensnared
in abounding love.
The cracked speedometer draws
a seamless spool.
The ground drools.
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