Fin Sorrel writes

SWEEP, FIELD, CELLPHONE, FEET, TOWER

a tourmaline body suit into the crash fields,

unraveled a string from the pockets of space

Drift slow of these collapsing radio station broadcasts:

Tornadoes

coiled today, binding wing after wing, searching sleek hair, all

those dangling galaxy cheap [little fort in place of tangled

branches to spruce circular mutations unfold] My nickname is

too far.

Orange juice, cranberry, bread, tomato, lettuce, french fries,

Beer, Cigarettes, gravy, sponges, dish soap, trash bags,

call me: turtle little bittle.

Shape up the Ivy’s, though, a loose fabrication sagging down

time, space bending, wings for flight blowing with the leaves

 

 -- Brad Guay