a white line stretches out forever
and upon out feet
a little rubber padding
perfect for dancing
we are the people who come
quickly across the wet hills
dripping with ideas
and bound in the strangest
sounding ways
a little fire draws a small circle
of fluttering ghosts
all keeping ahead of the
last most devastating thoght
the towering fever
the blinding oblivion
spits and scatters all
matter violently and evenly
like seeds across the wet hills
a filament of something
resembling truth whirrs
and begins in the gaping
chasm of space we spread
ourselves out as naked
as fish beneath such skies and
quietly watch them, all
thirteen of them, passing through
the scrub oak, gray and white
diminutive and deliberate
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