Unfolding into itself, inviolable
in prosaic self-*******,
a boundless repertoire
of shape yearns forth surreptitiously
from inscrutable amniotes to claim
time as its own:

  Here a thicket
  of sycamores, there a baldaquin
    of pinnate branches, yonder
      a periphery of marigolds, below
        a cacophony of hyraxes, above
    the corpuscle of a lynx, the mid-flight
   jink of a darting swift and moribund
  crawl of a mollusk;

     Hymenoptera coaxing
     their haploid broods into teeming
     life as a cell of the swarm
         and viviparous apes cajoling
         suckling chimerae at the fathomless
         fountainhead of a rosy breast;

       Higher still,
       Cirrus cephalopods traversing
       the trench of sky, dandelions
       hitch-hiking the drift of a barren plains'
       wavering hum on cockchafers'
       forewings and a turbine's
       bombinating pulse, the chattering
       of roots ravenous for depth --

Jittering bangtails the hallowed echoes
of lascivious manes --

   inchoate sprout-hood the daedal
   nonage of towering evergreens --

      the plaintive shrift of elegiac
      redbreasts a goad to silent elation --

A likeness unlike
     (vocabularies of vertiginous blinds)
          (the eyes of ignorance closing)
             (the mouth of the mystery)
                that spurns the truth of tongues

                     is nature naturing.

Dizzy, the rush
of thoughts incapacitate
synapses firing, neurons
    throttled, a crescendo
    of dendrites branching

Experience roots
inwardly, tearing the humus
           of pregnant dreams, scratching to see
                               the blood beneath the scab.

     The greater the itch, the greater
        the disturbance of sleep,
            bound by a tangle of vines,
            deafened by the cobbling-together
                of thrushspeak, the cry of clouds
                contorting into unthinkable
                     and suggestive shapes        

   Bleary-eyed, the lost wages
   of sleep gambled away
   on a ticking clock.

Say only
what must be said
and ears will hear,
not merely listen,

Do only
what needs doing
and restless thought
will come to rest;

Think only
what creates beauty
and hearts will feel,
not take for granted.

For this world
is bright -- sharp --
it hurts to look at
for too long;

  For trauma
  demands a story --
  how what shouldn't
  comes to pass --

    For ugliness comes
    of the artifice of men
    creating in isolation
    their ******* essences

        And it is only the heart
               that can see rightly.

Too-simple eludes as
too-complex disturbs
the instinct to grasp,
clutching at emptiness
in trembling fear

    Hope says, "there is
    always Hope,"

        A lure to elongate
        the reach, further
        overbalancing.

              Hope the crafty wolf
              stalks a deer in the glade.

Hope for what?
Acquire what?
Purchase what?
Become what --

           that could fulfill the yearning
           of the bough for the root?
           ...that could elucidate its relentless
           aspiration skyward?
           Oh, but if -- !

                   freeze at the snap of a twig

All aflutter at the
promise of sweet water
against seeking lips
     hungry fools chase
             Hope for a taste

          Into devil wilderness
       exposure threatening
   surviving by the teeth.
   Reduced to mating behavior,
         territoriality, predation --
              all else forgotten.

              the measured twitch and
                 watchful eye fail to outwit
                     the cunning wolf in wait

Nowhere we bring ourselves
is safe.

What is there to speak of
when identity includes
all things?

Generalities flowing
in breathless currents, drowning
        these hollow perceptions
        and empty comforts
        in wondrous depth --

Who is this "myself" but
attachment to a cage, a cage
that scarcely contains the force
  of conviction, the assault
       of passion?

Time the river of blood
flows upstream to source
in a pregnant oblivion
obscuring abortive abstractions,
   carelessly dreamt.

Something rages,
ever watchful. Whence
comes this terrible Eye? Whither
does it sleep, sparing
its awful gaze
and the hallucinations
of unceasing desire,

But in every bed?