A month | not so much as cloud piddle…

A month | not so much as cloud piddle.
The bamboo i snipped last month

is dry as an old man’s cough.
In the vice of the fire it snaps

& heckles | its plumage retting up
the windy stem | a split seam in linen

fibers hooked on dry skin curled
off the nail like a slow flame purls paper

—naked the peeled apple | nude man
: nude woman : human animal.

i’ve this fiasco of cadence to scrum
—consulting ash that looks just like

the dorsal mountain’s vaulted ambition | props
the sky with granite scaffolding

: the well counselled marriage
of this n’ that or tit for tat.

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