Prostrate in a heaving ditch,

buried by a mound

of feathers and flowers.

Colored there by inks

that run and flick with

rumors of consciousness.

A pillow of rock

birthing urgent books

from a leather womb.

Blades from the shafts on target

ricocheting through dim

psychedelic wire.

Blues from an ancient death

reflected in mercury.

Shades of a violet hedge

rustling around a silent palace.

Risen from slug-kissed leaves,

filed in the sky's sheaf

of uncollected pages,

gone sailing on the journey

of a laughing wound.

Crescent furrowed with

luminous moss, vine crawling

gelatin bricks, palpitating

metallic walls.

Daffodil tongue

in the deep mouth

unburied for riotous summer,

stone teeth descending in erotic spirals

to the drain of a world's fond yellow fall.