The crows

have removed
my eyes.

I mean
one leaped

with my eye
out the socket

and stuck its
crud-feet

into the
crescent moon.

I am careening
in lunar agar,

spiraling

in rows
of corn,

in dark globules
of granite.

I am
creeped-out,

in ocular
beneath

the cold, static
tentacles of night.

*

The leaves
begin to fall,

and peeking
from the gravel:

A child says to
mom,

"what are these strange berries?"

Deforestation

I rattle out the coffin--unearth myself in granite--shed my skin in attics--my arm in eagle's shadow--I have awaken--in a cathedral, mangled--I am prepared--for the constellationless night--the slaughter--aped-out in a cave of giant skeletons--I witness my ejecta--spiral, milky lurking--my legs have been cancelled--a mysterious animal mutilation--the static residual--silver crawlspace--the space between bodies--a movement in bone-white--the sub-ethereal pines--when axes lick the organs.

Postcard

Wet bird, etherbird
crud-bird of unlight.

Here beneath the outcrops--
here in the vuggy wad,

the tesla-alloy scyscape,
Prairies' winds drone.