I understand the sculptures of pigeons, the magma, the porcelain feathers
the way the planet grows
into one hemorah
the way the deers the do’s the fall befores the spinster
caves of Lazarus fire, cigarettes made from birds.
Hunting the way that trees are shrewd animals
and the way that the sky is transparent
I understand the grip, the guests made from skin
My Monday rent is due a beer.
But the rest… The soil shaves as my beard greys singing in, singing in!
to the punch, to the black waves harvesting low roar
the river’s spirit changes night, the naked herons are gold
the trees are made profound by light! Their flesh immaculate,
their bark, their poise, where they really – really! – begin to laugh.