terrain is spiteful

on a hill
sometimes
a road
a path, a rut,
a rivulet in song

full frontal
brick, glass, asphalt
glare, radio,

sirens call

amplitude and fluttering
uncommon grace

in chains

wheezing, I run these steppes
slowed by rapturous grapevines
and silver bullets

the hill is blinding
a green jewel
kryptonite
core
gentle

drainage ditch

steep and piercingly
crisp and

I check my brakes
they function for the cross-traffic
trees
concrete abutments

mellifluous

failure falls on top of me
shadows grab
fishhooks barb
lines tangle
I sink in

flesh

wound

© Tom Watters  4/30/06