the shape

What's this? A dish for fat lips. Who says? A nameless stranger. Is he a bird or a tree? Not everyone can tell. Water recedes to the crying of spiders. An old scow bumps over black rocks. A cracked pod calls. Mother me out of here. What more will the bones allow? Will the sea give the wind suck? A toad folds into a stone. These flowers are all fangs. Comfort me, fury. Wake me, witch, we'll do the dance of the rotten sticks, Shale loosens, marl reaches into the field. Small birds pass over water. Spirit, come near. This is only the edge of whiteness. I can't laugh at the procession of dogs. In the hour of ripeness the tree is barren. The she-bear mopes under the hill. Mother, mother, stir from your cave of sorrow, a low mouth laps water. Weeds, weeds, how I love you. The arbor is cooler. Farewell, farewell, fond worm. The warm comes without sound.