Bugs rise barely breathing,
snap-able pinwheels without
an ounce more in torque. ​

Noon: when shadows tether
to their referents.
Insufferable tour guides
back-peddling through rows of Italian fir. 

​Other trees, what did we name them?
The imaginary ledger of things
you point at and say, Wow. 

A stone in the middle of it,
and below that a body.
All of our enemies
justly murdered by their butlers. 

​Yours truly, like a journalist
on a losing streak only aware of spaces
yanked out from under the real. 

The language arts,
which do nobody any good.