he is a naked reef
on this dry bed
of a prairie.

quickened by the
low islands, wading
in the most melancholy
procession, he flies
high in the hours.

he is indifferent
as a prison, awaiting
the appearance of
brow beating truth,
the whole hundred
bales. phlebotomy,
self-balancing
the colour of the land
of tombstones.

a shadow darkens the golden
days of that first time
i was the labor of his
kindling eye.