the afternoon dreams
against stationery of bruised berries

its waxed seal, the moon
strains to wish itself into being

here I make us soup of spit and twigs
and the vestigial fins of fishes

to store in copper cauldrons --
I press grapes into pockets of leather

trees are stripped nude
branches hold rude sentences

of a thousand rooks, rogue groups
of punctuation arc up and under

from their words I weave
pack-baskets for the flanks of okapi

we untie our knotted lines
follow syllables of rivers to the sea