WEBVTT

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This out of the same
spring called "Idyll."

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Where the pine needles
bristle, like blue sequins,

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the mirrors burn.

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So many knuckles for
that handful of words,

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path springing-- mineral--

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out of path, wind I drop
through, sleep in, a lobe wrapt

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in the plump muscles of a mouth.

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Knead and grapple, bury
us in that breathing,

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for Earth's its own twin.

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That pressed, the
bodies imprint.

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Print canyons, thistles,
rise, wet flanked,

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from the driven image of
our own irretrievable limbs.

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