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By series: Bridge St  In Yr Ear  Ruthless Grip

Swallowing What Dirt

Outside the last storied cylinder
Bereft of reference points
Next to a drop into pure light
Where a sort of darkness dwells
Rhinos charge hanging barrels.

    We are less
    Than our own measurements
    Demanding predictions.
    Cry heartily
    Into the face of despair.

Next door an orangutan completes
The top of a stump, cherries grow
Toward the clouds, and the thin,
Eerie whistle of lions amid pine trees is
Ignored. There is no perfect reproduction.

    If only a reasonable
    Were rewarded
    With a measured, - cropped

Tremors. fluxuations. Shifts. Drifts.
Lose. Drip. Float. Bend. Fail. Flop.
No start. No charge. No rip, stain, shovel.
A sign tangles its way out of the trees
Saying "soup randomly changes ingredients."

    We become
    Our postures as the moments
     Turn to flesh
     And revel in the
    Silly colors of the earth.

Cartoons yawn beneath your ground
Swallowing what dirt and moisture are
There. Form a bridge to the place where
Swallows talk poker and faces present themselves
Clearly in the space of bristling afternoons.