I am having a cloud infused teardown
tar paper and asphalt excrement.
The lips of the world not the lips of worms
nor the eyes of the world–but the eyes of snakes
bound to the edge of their tongue.
What has been written when the night shade
hugs the grass fed stream, obsidian and pumice
pushing through surface gravel, the rich water
smooths itself after a rough patch
and settles down to a rainbow and a hum.