pitch your hut
on fertile land,
get floods

my swirling ethereal
effect,
cordial and formless,
joins the wind
to hold the door.

looks quiet
doesn’t it?

brother if you
only knew

in that tidy masterpiece
of a war
the woods were full
and only smoke rose.

and all that fell
fed the witness tree
who shrugged and
went back to sleep

and dreamed
of an invite for thee

whatever is going on in my veins
radiates

to the observer appears
a pulsing harbinger of change