Spring,

Deliberating the hand’s swerve,

Wanders through palette-knifed acres

Scraped into clouds,

Kicking up a panorama of rain-dust all about us - a sob

Escapes pursed paths;

A dandelion mote settles upon your palm and scowls.

…

Turtle-shelled thing - world borne on a spine, buckling to the East Breeze

And gawping at soft-edged light beams scattering across Cwndu church

Where a few still pray.

…

Weary sitting on the ground’s wound, splitting apples; oh, lifeblood: we must move.

…

Before the hills noticed our disturbance the rock-water ran clear - now it is yellowed, musty,

Poured back out of sour mouths long dried.

…

Up on the bog in the clouds, vaulted bodies warn of autumn’s arrival,

Up on the bog in the clouds, I hear dreams and questions

Screamed from the pendulum winds:

I imagined myself -

Raising calloused hands,

On a pew kneeling

At all the right parts,

Singing in the miserable

dirge of voices, fumbling words,

Around me the pastures let loose winds fly.

…

Instead, I am beaten wet and lugged out of the range,

Heaving as the light flickers from behind the other place.

A dumb tongue unreels, catching needle water, tape undone, undone,

Behind for a while.