a whole gold leaf

to cover more than space-

the cutting of air, into & over-

the thrill of the slice

of the sky.

a poem is only a little chaos.

evidence of expansion.

the shadow of the soul.

moss be with you. me without

the farms well I’m mostly fielded.

it only takes four small seeds

to fall, for months under.

don’t make me make

you say underwear.

a silly bunch of leaves is this.

a yet to be raked.

a blade ablaze in

the nimbus of your throat.

purple fruit or close to it.

i wonder even still how Pluto must feel,

to be the 9^th man,

 a catcher of orbits

& drift a year too far,

wind up forgotten.

there’s way you know to water from rocks.

even cold, get north to south.