Wednesday night when the texts want
a function they grab one we stopped
where Neither Fashion Nor Denial on
her grave was mourned from a chariot
above the ghosts of the loggers still
sawing away the antlers on the empty
picture frames eating soup marked
for export I asked him to paint the bus
orange and now it's an orange the
cadets moved the mountain I think
of Dean Moriarty but speak of the
function again where the mountain
had been in the shade marked below

its function like the floating pages
disguised as leaves am to cover
the footprints those i don't know

or they were racing on tv sets
when the children were counting logs
west to east and back again water
is branded like tear drops on the backs

glass that isn't there seen through
the mountain down by by way it