Roots hang loose in the wet crepe
of yesterday’s fete. Tickets to easy street 
sucked from backseat windows 
on the highway to Oliver Grove, 
where twice, we’ve seen the blimp, 
driven right under it. 

Rain-clouds meet at the mountain’s foot.
(cosmic yoga, 
                         cozy tropopause). Raise 
hot lakes from theatric bathymetry. 

I once fell open to the earth 
like moldavite released 
from a meaty hand
that pledged meaty allegiance
to its meaty oar, and thrust
in the boat—the coefficient knees. 
Boys are sleeping rolls of fondant, 
blondly in formation in the need-
to-know, and row, row 
in the wolf-prickled sun.