of all the foam that’s left my body
acid molds in junk engines

today, i am lifting small strokes—

oilbirds with guttural voices

biorhythmic blast furnace

curtailed by the shallow satin threads

this cave laughs—
and shovels words denatured

today, i sell god’s high pitched gestures

disguised in dissolving hyperlingo

the taut mixture a swarm of vowels
that metabolize metal

& in the skirmishes
rendering pinworms create an altar—

faced against a sweeping sunline