a thousand drops under the radar
mist once more over the lakeland

have lost sight
with the head altogether
in which the eyes are plugged
like impacted projectiles

images straighten
seize up
the ocean
the quiet sea
in the horizon like an axe blade

the mirror fogged
and traces of dust on the silver tray
thrown down in clothes remnants

tumbled backwards in the sense of
heavily backwards in the sense

“the turnpike is forest damage for a toll
from the time before the moths stopped loving lavender”

wind noise
in flapping tarps white
below the red dust
of this soil

wasteful maneuver of a flow of air
in the updraft
from our grasp

here on the edge
i lay down as a wreath
the spectrum of depressive disorders
for you