la damn air sang

Onward i crawled, along the shore, caked in muss and salt. / And I'd wreck. "Land!" she calls. No, a wet-hot mirage, sour sand.

Lo! Hear how hollow harps blow hard, hide from hanging forever in lower winds. / Whine high, level, heal now a wild, misshapen world. Harbor horror, grow fond of.

"Eat ardor! Need this!" yells the bush-bare herd. / Harder to breathe, hardened by shell tissue.

A mud-dry lung under fierce tar. / Merciful green, a ruddy tundra.

Alive, ground-drunk on root-beer. / Or bone-naked. Or gut-run. Or devil.