It’s better looking over shoulders of a
road that isn’t there and leaves held
in the hands of
strangers combing through their sacks.
Eyes, dead, locked-- begging;
Pan the unique kilning porcelain
ornament for gives; stolen heat is hidden under tiles
as salt melts under tires and collapsing
blocks of ice float through
the crevice of your murky stream.
That pine severs from the limb of repose
and jams in meaning to your crook--
where your chasm distorts silence.