Sinking in the grass
the threat of beauty,
pregnant with stones,
reeking of
sand and unlit flames.

The sun trembles with
night.  The moon climbs
over its skin:
its silent face is open.

Where is the creator?
On a path of glory, green
with voices,
dead with electric water.

Behold a peaceful empire,
where stretches of infinity
appear like a population of
eyes in the unbolted hand.