Pull up socks where the wet and mud
collide and make clay that holds firm.
The walls insulate each hurried pulse
beside a blood-red thermos that sweats.
Leather and cloth hang on loose scenery;
decorated rock and groaning branch.
The earth is an iced cake and it has plates
and faults and grumbling, hot secrets:
if you are silent, you can hear them
‘neath the clack of a plastic eye or the
fizz of a reel that has no end. In hot light,
whiskers hold sway and we live or die.
Frozen in gold and buried with each
shining moment, we will storm forever.
Vast Imbecility 