the loam – ripe with glut
of worm – spills
a bony secret onto verse
bearing noosing of nuance
anger blips ammonia as
the goings of
tremendousness gather as
we tremble salt
In whose silence does water bleed? through
which path to stone does life run its course?
when does the machine begin to reflect upon
Its lie? where can the parched eagle soar
if not in my dungeoned voice? how can summer
tell if it is a mere shadow of winter?
What does it matter if the life
of an atom is halved and there is silence,
some tremble, and then bloodbath?