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.