A time to sleep peacefully when the weeds
in the nearby towns have reached the
fringes of the sun, a time to
when all the birds in the woods have been lost in the foliage
to compose a lullaby for the
when all the prairie dogs have been lost underground
for the first hangwoman in the world long dead
when all the waves in the nearby oceans have been counted



There are burning maps of a tasteless forest
With paths lost in the bellies of spiders
We step on pictures of humans made by birds
And rotten fingers pointing at the clear sky
When kettle and shampoo trees grow quiet

Children beget stolen words
Vomit stolen magic



Deer never know where they came from.
They flee from cumbersome light,
shunning ghost gates marked by rough wooden poles.
Trees get lost in the hills. Old age doesn’t bring
wisdom to hawks and stones, old gods are
prone to destroy the context of the world.