Father,
The elbows of the ground are bending now.
The slipstream earth bowls down. Berry red
boils down, the firebed.
I am not crying. Shifted silt is merely finding
salt lines in my suede shoes. Topographical
etchings mark my rise and fall.
Loosely the marks of map burn away, under
my lens-light. Sharp glass cuts the fission air.
Fire flirts under the political oracle, smoke.
Somewhere oceans are receding, peeling
under this new mountain's pretensions. Peak
tops jut, cut. Scalpels mark red lines in some
fecund cadaver. Its hundred thousand maggot
children crest like sea foam round the flecked
face of the knife.
I have seen you for the first time, as she bleeds
out around my hunch-form.
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