clatter-clash, the geese-like gestures love makes,
I see it all: foolish and mindless as the dauntless
hike of ants up the hill winged down dark by dusk
and some animal hunger

I am no different, I lap like rivers at any full moon-milk,
howling out the hollowing empty black beneath the blank
mirror-blank look; it’s as if I breathe water and dream
with paws, a heart slips against its
own narrow wolfishness and is heard of no more

harbor this season with me, the grub-pale berries fatten
among the moldering leaves where my hands open and
shut like sad, idiot petals; what labor will learn them? I
eat my way out, throat by throat, yet freedom eludes me

when the sun disrobes, it is damnation: we are an albatross
of regret and the little else of leaf-littered glooms, there is no
pit to slouch towards, no shadow to marry
we are all too seen