The unnumbered
sailing stones of Death Valley
thrush’s melody beat her/my skin with increased throb.
Thrice bitten by a sand flea storm,
could never stop the throes
of convulsions as today’s exoplanet.
She/I unwoven as we enter the north
and south pole transpiring-in-zone.
Our mind became flight!
She/I of double women shades,
with the song thrush’s melody,
wearing a double shroud
over the land of dead-eyed people
of no sound, a dimension of lyric pushing
the ridge of mental age—say of 428 light-years—
of sentient beings with a refined
conveyance of gesture. STOP. NO!
Not like that, but maybe. We join and conjoin
our inner selves in fire and skull.
No one else can twist the lever of how
it is. A thistle of wild cotton, that ignites
and goes rogue is a volcano with lava
map charts unfold the tectonic plates,
yield to sea light, sing thrush sing
for snow and twenty-five below.