I drooled into the mouth

of a river, bending to a humid

tone after the uplift. My allegiance

to the ground,

unaccountable every now and

then. An occasional attack.

Umbra suctioned

to tealeaves in a wicker basket. The head

cradled in wild green arms

stewing in its own juices.

(The name for this

floats up against itself.)

As hi-def flames unhinge flames

I promote erosion.

To gauge a weapon is

to depulp a flower. A carnal

temper. A spade, apical.

Dirt flooding into a green coma,

risen from the drought unpeeling

and flensed

against the track

of a mesmerizing hand.

Mechanical insults to

a cutaneous barrier.

Less marrow till fully distended.

Meanwhile: a finger running the scrotum seam.

I keep up the talk of crazy bowels,

the talk of trying to dry it all

out but it’s all green and getting greener.