Between the páramo and cold Georgia nights

Processes of lambent rescission pleads docility
where Viridian Metatails scatter the páramo,
instilling charm into the otherwise criminal
staples of homes and buttercream stand-offs
graced by today’s lost journal-smith pleading
with a boast like a fusillade of bird droppings
on the smoking center of ecological growth;
now narrow, now nationalized into a partaken
Ostrich Crow skipping its morning meal
across a dozen lanceolate witnesses.

And we were there. Silence-thin witnesses.
Like Andreas Vesalius high on matted Turtle Wax
and drogue ceiling cakes diving into the morning
trains where weather-bound cynosure birth centers,
alone and distinguished, stays between the pride of
April olives and sterile grapefruit-coins. We will not
know Her/Him until we have overcome the whittled
resonance of likewise locusts, frogs, and horses
of our own economy and biosphere; regrets exhumed,
like lost sand in the passion of retested agricultural stars.

The distant southern Georgia nights rein in
the frost of the morning bullet-sand, where
washed clothes left out all night scream
into the páramo, embedded into smoking dross
witnesses like a silenced train far too frail to return
the comment resembling a split indecision part exchange
where tulips are meant to grow and take down patrons
with dull-senses of worn-bind passions. Like a garden snake
relaxing and gratified and finding purpose in its meaning.
Like a cat in the furtails of oblique laundry lines, total implicated.