Land Mower

a growler is running clouds are being mown down then replanted inside wind-scapes Popping seeds crunch together spill their fill into the air a word on the lip of imagination is chopped out of existence ears ring with dead bird songs a silent space of myself flaps away i would rather be a bat orbiting the moon than here and now the grass under my feet is cut a grave undercroft of being turns over and over a restless mind has long searched for my house but the house is cut down and landscaped to pieces i need an enemy to love or a love to hate nothing less will do