This land is amorphous.
a cruel paradox
of old shadow.
- the brave
effort of geography
to remember things
ancient lost.
always a memory.
never, it feels,
alive independent.
Now coffin nail trees
groan
like some belly of a whale,
cast
in obsidian breath,
dark still,
until its burning hour.
some vengeful lights
traveled. turned
over ,
, over.
There are dreams, here.
violent and weird.
bleeding
inconstant
as the land
and sort-of-land
and not-quite-land, here -
- ready always to accept
that easy suggestive stroke
of quick hurricane shift,
upside down
and thunder eyed.
