open seed;
her busted fetus of death's frail womb
and moisture drops soil's dehydrated tongue,
a quiet resignation, understanding,

is some triumph on the other side
where the picket fence, traitor,
glances in whatever direction he
hears noise.

&

we exchange our horoscopes
with our eyebrows,
and the mini universes beneath them,
circular and budding
as medicines and poisons.

&&

you are not shimmied away
by the sand's magnetic force
nor stand with planted soles
on stone foundation.

you are lured
by wind's woe of distance.