SEASON OF PERPETRATORS
They dream as if their plights were real, they flinch and scrape.
If speed ever once
shivered for them, if a heat thermal came pushing up,
they’d devour their own future, and they’d sell off
their fortune: one yard, one boulder.
A green gel comes between us
then springs back so the lens fades to blue, but it’s not like floating,
and there’s a flap of skin. The keeper
says they’re nursing that wound.
Not a scent of threat, more like preening, more like a wedding,
coral trees assemble behind.
Flexing into thought, I’m woozy
Their pompadours are a tangle of magic straw.
I give way
to wide words cast on the hillside, as their pink tongues
stab the black air, rank and sinew steadfast.