there it is, the tapestry

of the impassably steep.

a precipitous rambling through

numb metal music stands or beads with holes

or girls named after states.

the pass is steep. it force feeds nearly every

rock it greets. don’t take bets on creased sheets

at night. you might wake up to scorched playbills.

they always come free, if you’ve noticed

and the rings in the trees never engage in petty conversation. here’s something

i’ve never – a stethoscope wrapped around a dead turtle on the shore, who lived a hundred years but never could pronounce the word “vitality.” apostrophes aside, i couldn’t stay another moment, not with the floor drenched in ash, the spray bottle gone, the ellipsis charred to pebbles, and the game’s no fun if we’re all cheating, anyway.

look through the hand to the bone.

look through the bone to the string.

look down the string to the mirror – it faces another mirror so that i may walk down its emerald avenue.

the horizon has a new scar you can only see through a camera lens.

the beach is filthy, except where the lightning struck.

what if the animals walked back into the sea.

what if the precipitous rambling stopped and the pressure of clenched teeth was worth more than gold.

it all comes free when we all cheat. the tree rings make up a better game.