the fist is a mulled gust sliding in
beneath the blue lid half
the land crumbles
and streaks out to the hug the rest
trembles and hauls
itself up on pillars of vine of
gnarled root
to billow and bend
weather-beaten and littoral a little moist in the folds
what can’t flex snaps everything’s soaked on
and on it goes
fluking squalls
cussing about curious about
nothing intent
on roll and the land
pours
in all directions grass green riverine bobbling up into hills
frantically disguising itself
with trails of charismatic geographies
until the squeeze
of the periphery where
it all links together again a ring
forming thinner than light
a ring around a vast open verging
on volume
before it grows hazy
and shivers a little
there
