the night gyrates,
becomes a spiral,
becomes a spine for the breeze body.
the horn keeps getting under things
as the bass pulls in.
drawing all the fruit forward.
the urban sky!
purple on the verge of black
and just one star, pulsing, reddish.
where all the climbers gather.
spore winds take me,
the day heat breaks.
the slow note erodes stone.
how much can a house of images be stretched without snapping out of constellation?
I scan the windows.
the sky is thick, cloudless, intimate.
we’re weaving basket ships to carry
troubled souls beyond caring.
to save the spiders to hold secrets to bring wind.