yturtyurt

move the method stirrups
to the sweet face, in the
glacial fields, letting the
air born fall westward over the horizon
the wild turkey cringes in midnight
march, waiting on the
hot hot heat of
morning
to institute the howling of life-
hang the freezing at the door, find
northern rest at the
hearth restate every brick with a
photograph,
and quote constantly
the genera of each age
so incorrectly that
the text
fables freshly out
your mouth
like minted sticks of gum
the collateral of each birth to
chew anew, the
gargle of the past
we are here poised for ever
and hoping the glove of history has
slipped, it strangles like a hand
every chance it gets.