The
Rattles its pod, the
Discharges itself from the tree with nowhere to go.
My landscape is a hand with no lines,
The roads bunched to a knot,
The knot myself,
Myself the rose you acheive—-This body,
This
Ungodly as a child's shriek.
Spiderlike,
I spin mirrors,
Loyal to my image,
Uttering nothing but blood—-Taste it, dark red!
And my
My funeral,
And this hill and
Gleaming with the mouths of corpses.
