Hopeless to the brigade of cars homing in down the vertical hive
I’m one and five with the sun and its love with the ravine begins with your eyes and slips in the open crater sky
Ringing the pulse of the ocean
Firing a fever through tunnel vision of the birds locked in trees
The news crusades from a natural alley and falls on a peaceful summer afternoon dream wanted and desired with every mistake of my hunting hand and my foreign eye
The rhythm marks the dawning between the cross and our barren golden afterthought of mysteries and dinner
The mammal plagues the songs from the mountain
The monks always cross their eyes to wish that Autumn holds the coming day