bog oak, fir,
roots of residual languages,
hard, fibrous, and jealous,
one of another,
you draw me towards a lake,
in famine territory,
where the halo of the sign
gives way to resolution,
and the red admiral
flutters through the air
of a silken doubt.
Now, walking into the quartz
of a sphere of white hope,
in the underbelly of despair,
maggots in the friable earth
under the fingerprints of a pulse,
whose quiescent thirst,
for the lead of plutonium
in the door of the heart's ventricle,
in runic letters,
above the urn of ash and bone splinters
bidding farewell to their wondrous cancer,
expires in the thirsting,
and, thirst for thirst,
magnificat of the process,
there are signs.
