X-rayed
At death's door
What is burning
Is elusive at best—
A box of a backseat
In which the hundreds swam
The thousand remaining
Yards to shore
Scaring off
Littoral birds
Like patience they flew
Like a person wrinkled by old age is burning, slowly
The burden of the poet
Is spectacle
Like the first man was also a thing
Open at a moment when
Phantom limbs
Craned out of nothingness
To eat poetry
To garden words
Perspective was lost
Linoleum was laid
Only to discover
Left to right
We scan what we see
Hunted like words
In a newspaper
JUMBLE
