A lost cohort of arms folds improperly into itself
the hands red, mangled form spiked plumes
in the snow, on the rubble and pebble

Locust arrives white hot, blinding who
leaves a flight of magma terra
in her milk there is no puzzle and

each puzzle consumes its own waste
of perspira pursuing the next shoreline
of scalded blood and answers

Each convolutes by command to an
epoch of gaude and ***** where she
weaves a beaming scaffold