Roads that climb across the valley

washed by rivers, scrubbed clean

by the grains of blind bodies

as ornamented trees rise

from a broken spine

and painted tongues lash

from painted faces

I follow the web of water

suspended in the wake

of a fleeing sun

the carrier of ropes that run

up to their cranking pulley

with a robot's face and fish teeth

the glint of a barbed wire wreath.

I am from the winter.

I ignite the curves

of astral lakes

as I ascend throughout

the worlds.

Black holes break upon

my wingless wonder.

Dawns come and go beneath

no overhang.  I open like a lung

before a rain of dead matter

then cough it out as a spray

of gray moths.  Their patterns

iridescent take on many shades

one orifice of galaxies arrayed.