I was born on an
earth much smaller
than holy-oaks
are, & now equal
their ash

I will warble away my material hearses
of whom such dystopian wing-eating stands

a Trans-Am inert
w/ the number of dead
still buying small
moon rocks of hat

one lung opened
at maximum recess
its gainly condition

& cured all the oars in a similar warmth
where rowing now follows an effortless joy

splendid diminishing rust
& split glows, equal
to each quit neglect"

Issue #3