Meadow, my mood level sinks
into your nested pit
when redirected
put into force, and I
move through your limbs

for since I've been avenging the terrors
I've no longer had any fear
they seem sweet - or desperate.

Yellowed
little skins, eyeing me


then they come bursting over the meadows
their undiscussed unanimity
from the edge of the woods, among the
trees, high, striding
through the field, heaving
a steaming sutra among
the unrestrained ones, nose-ring wrestlers

are they speaking? To the grandchildren?