through white-naked birch
the overhead wires carry voices and words
called yes and love and all that.
i have spoken them myself
and not known what they meant,
sent them along by satellite.

they have lost their purpose.
like bodiless shells once 
on a shining strip of guttered sand,
they dust up my pockets to nest
upon cold stiff fingers.

on a vivid yellow bin
i topple, sun on my face blasting into the
eyes you look through. i might even be this
GRIT, i think i am- neon and so on.
for this year and life.

soon i’ll be dead.
i cruise, behind the scenes
stealthy as a sniper.
you shift and roar as you sleep,
great as a crater
and blossoming whole as a storm.