this great maw

heaving out a yawn

vessels running sluggishly

the glut of my granary

emptied; in summary

a population bows

in synchronistic fashion

a consummation of vows

snuffing candles and

laying down

for a spell.

good canyons and tunnels

dry; thick boots of

prune juice, a hastily

constructed lean-to,

hardtack patching up the

spine. so it hangs in the

wind, the fabric of the flag

disintegrates and emigrates

as the votives sail out.

the wreckage.

the rumbling and wheezing

of an engine past its

lifespan, an old dog

doing old tricks

because it isn’t dead yet.

the crowds bend their

heads in prayer.

they memorialize

with unseen fealty

to bring about the evening

when pine trees make

silhouettes against the

blurring sky.





the place that contains the list of the containers of words