Forks and Color

Forks and color
Breath and small things clattering, unseen, on the roof.
Fresh hollers, dynamite twirls down the mountainside
That can be heard by the filling valley.
Smoke lends it lectures to the sky.

I try the trade elsewhere,
Begging off the bending bursts of seven single railways to the sun.
Fly to my every bedside,
Last and East to hope,
Lest the least become northeast
To Easter’s lasting time upon the slopes.

Frail whiskers
Faint whispers
Black under the tamed ringside,
Left for free at the floor below all feet.

Salamanders swing the lightest: all their limbs grow back.