through a throat
wide as a new mother's waist.
overheads, copses bleed
orange, yellow, cinnabar
leaves into limpid sky. the lake
shallow to the green
demarcation line
between twenty-two eyes and
America's blurry edges.
I have my hands full
with pine needles.
they also fill my nose
when I crush them, and
their colour becomes mine.
along the beach
paling driftwood teases
into piles that penguins might nest in
men set alight.
skipping, I eat the white
glare, catch the others
close to a tide-cleared point
and kneel before them smiling
when the timer goes off.
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