A tigered teeth. A four-limbed wind.

A thatched head. A mouth in its rusting.

A can of worms plodding in a salted throat.

Shards of a dull grey urn

under the bristle thread of a stream.

No sap or season too small. The hand

of the clock floating through a muscled estuary

like a limpid egg. The weathermen report

dewlapped leaves & men tailing the wind with

their nose to the grass. Gulls flowing past the jellied

road. A fine film of gossamers lining the sky’s

filament. This is how we know the

field is ripened for escape.