this crack is
your bale,
twined
no such narrative
in the scrimped beyond
one evens
his or her fountains
with carousel animals
their cabbagy eyes
clouded over
just think of all the thinking
you could do
if the clover never got pulled back
if the grass itself seeded
fast to these lulls -
horn-parts dimming
past the singed rim
of the house
its land gives way
the starlings
populate an empty tree
tying the front of the branches
together in claw and soot
what from a distance
looks like a mask
then erases
the slow-backed words
(woods) in part
until we pass
the howls grow
stranger and form
from our own throats