Air’s bitter as horehound when it happens.

Roots detonate emphysemic. August

so sick and yellow I heard a bird say

words in English. A cloud peels down

a lava and I sleep with all lights out.

I wake, a child, start naming things

a calculus to calm, the overworked sphincter

of positivism smooths my hair. That orange crate

squatting came from out the isthmus.

That shoestring staked by splinters is a hymn.

Those galoshes, yes, are full up with a leg each.

But all that’s air. I pad to the screen door

and one by one unstick the damsels

piped down the mesh in mummied hundreds.