Rags of bitter light

torn across the hillsides,

tombs of stacked and lettered linen

tongues breathing on tormented waters

the seasons distilled in limbs

that work a sarcastic machine.

Suds gushing over roots

that have let go their plumage of offshoots,

scalps piling up on rock

that peers into the brain.

Bells drifting over strings

in the dark's heartland

violas giving birth to chrome

tar-smooth paths

with a gird of roses

climactic deaths leading back

to a sinewy egg.