ground down, floor
level sinks. new depths
swallow every horizon’s
liner notes of birdsong
and dance in the dark
matter of fact checks.
dream houses divided
make for bad math,
act as myth for moving
the goalposts of some
story forward to the end
gray matter, gray days,
bloated time floats.
blue was blue, is green,
bottle-brown portends
destructive set and lift,
fells green, we watched
from walls for season creep
on-looking. now we will,
since the beginning of long
falls of people, be felled.
if the tree were a person,
if the field, only then might
we cross the narrow
horizon