TOO MANY TO NUMBER (Pink Tide)
It began like pins, pursed lips pledged
to pardon. Pursuit became unnecessary.
For every root there is a grub, ground
tunnel turned and funneled like a mouth
opening out. Uncovered dirt filled
with shovels. The twitch-light glinting.
There were teeth, and then there were
entrails. They'll save us the gory details.
Electric birds, electric war:
underneath you're all wires, pentecostal
as if rising up from flame fingers, wings
released rains of blessed waters. Underneath
we're humming, soaking in ruins. All spring
the reins of afterfeathers aftershock
take root in our ribs; this longing
springing up -- how it reaches
for tongues turning brass in the ashes