The one-legged chicken hops next door. Winged ants take to the air.
A mouse dashes furtive along the floor.
The sun ignites my hair. The shortwave sounds berserk.
Breath’s suspended in this bush
where weaving spirits lurk. Water’s still and nothing’s seen
but in the eye a fish’s scale.
One drop of dew falls every hour
and desire chokes on its swallowed tail.