be a birth—a flock of feathers tethered to the flume by design—
to know freedom exists—is—even in small spaces
where moving is made
difficult
by pressing matters in all states and form

shake sin into palms and press in till fire is made
nothing else is there
but lines and sweat and scars-
scars made by digging

digging through midwest earth
where the fields still sing of beginnings
beginnings of plowed pained
sore history and skin lynching

tight values without breath fringed by
fried southern misconception—a crippling attribute
of judgment
a personal Bill of Rights upheld by a god of design
whose vendetta is reflected in prayer
SMOTE THOSE WHO DO NOT BELIEVE OH GOD ABOVE
AND DELIVER THEM TO REDEMPTION
or hell fire will surely follow!

BRIMSTONE THIS EARTH INTO SAMENESS!

those are where the pale scarred palms come from—
the sweat of searching for
something great in a dusty field of swollen narrow values

but the midwest is expanse
and knitted seamless into the shores where oceans live
and moon flux tide, and darkness
a salty darkness neared by secrets of the most . . .
profane pleasures and adornment—
where the coast chooses the place to go
and bend
and twist
life as waves rolls like sex up and down the shores
kissed light by the desert and pinned by the rock face mountain—

a chiseled woman and her foothill children

the geography of design—a birth—a flock of feathers
tethered to the flume
to know
even here
there is space
for thought and matter
to know
even here
compressed and stressed
vision isn’t without choice nor decision

and as the skin finally heals
the palms whisper great stories
faint echoes
speaking in landscape tongue and remembering