the logs of river divers
swim the deep spring
a house on the shore
reveals stitch work of
drawn drapes
bees spin over Africa
stop the globe
in mid hive
land on the continent
first sting
then stung
past the tense
of death
extinct in
a snap
dawn dusts the
orange crate moths
a pleasant guitar chord strums
the strings of Alabamy Bound
on the foreign jukebox
sun pours down
the throats of hummingbirds
nestled in the
cosmos moon
periodic time tables
stored in cells that
remember those warm
living days
now it is night
not turn of the earth night
but the eternal
where lies the Holy Ghost
I am a certified planet
until St. Christopher
cancels my
subscription