to get to the salmon run, through the burning bush
ask the catfish.
where is the hunting ground, where is the gathering bush.
I sit on these winds, blowing around an island volcano,
sitting on its chest like a city baboon in the street chewing on rinds.
Making alien eyes with a sanctuary dream,
happily orange on the bends of rising,
from warm to chill,
in autumn pavement.

=cb merp