but at first only
the veins in my arms
were that color
the bloated purple-green
of hard work, strained through
such a perfunctory grate
now the cloudless
sky repulses an oily
mesh, not for the eye
not for the heart, either
but beating and cracked
an insidious rewind of
prone and gagging mix
the owled mountaintop
and her shaking skin.
can not, will not, must not
snow-heavy air livens an upturned palm
and the blind, cowardly thing
slinks; hue spoiled by rye fact.
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