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.