Antennae

Sh
a
p
sh
a
m
sh
a
la

Every loss of rain

I was fat.  Dense.  Troubled.
I am bored.  Dreaming of ashes.

Language no one is open to.

I remember being a nasty rock (let bosses give their nasty life to:  that's a family bog.)
A bog is something you get stuck in.

Laughing all the way to the race for loots.

Sag with your rack -- the knowledge of my interest is fake.




Land

I stride to the cave
Where there is marking
Of my Tastes in level moments.

Has there been a mess which is
Easy to like?

I gather the scraps of my accumulated documents:
Bills, receipts, notes, statements,
Their scope so minute and cruel that I
Am poor in the coldness of a cast out lump.

Elevation carries with it the nap I take:
Every day in the morning my sedative
And I reach out for love.