On the face of it
is  a mountain.
Below that,
orange sinus.

And in the long drip of it,
down to the lip of it,
a snot thing crawls.

But I took it on the chin,
lurching up to the clime
where leaves resolve
to needles, and the white
cliffs fall like beetles
in a tinderbox.

And the tangled lines
hooked below to stumps
and trinkets trickle
in the slipstream,
warm as mucous,
slow as dream,
bound to rust,
released as steam,
and effluents.