Of bristles tuning noise when scrutiny settles between tendril and tendril Of dents sunk into earth-crust, bronze between

two peaks greening a thousand mouths silently chipping away at walls toward destination and where was theirs? Mine lay under the skin

Of West Coast sun, nestled itself in flesh, opened up the mouth for more time—Counts ticks with two hands weaving through dirt Of hair-stalks

pouring shade over peeling Crimson gone blue and the buck lifts his burnt head, knowing before he feels the weight Of a sky extinguished