ground beneath the blossom-snow the underfoot of life
walking insomnia bleeding the moon to a crust
mute eyes pushing deep into stained wood. an autograph.
no mere identity would do,
& the queues outnumber the free Spring is smoothing the trees. human bones plead
for softening, too painful to sleep. the gush of dream
is a tangle in the slide of perception the waking pick at the moon, wrap it
in a day-shaped sleeve. call it the sun. plant it. From ‘the idea of wings’.