grasses sweep grooves in sand, the way streams forge sweeps in earth;
their soft brown tips dangle, like me, the narcissist,
searching for recognition, the call and response
the topographic certainty, the black and white pinions.
cloud gaps are light patch are sunglasses on.
loose rock and lost watch – the alpine flowers dry,
the travelling snow is sliced by skis or sun or boot tread
with spring their tracks melt, before i can revisit.
i love the steep incline, the shared gradient and shrub steps
with black blocks cracked and blue blue sky.

ants block the waterfall path, they bite skin and scale
you won't see them then your feet are black, bitten.
you will run and they leave peaks peaks.
after four hours the marsh fly breaks the black spider web.
tangled in white glue there's no direct flight, earth folds.

the tangled fly is caught in another web, fangs suck blood slow.
the carcass pulled to darkness, the green head splinters.
all eight legs, she watches from a crevice. all blood used
to bring what once buzzed to her. the door is closed,
the wings merely frames. all eight legs.

red paint on glass, a construction mishap. the dried paint drips
become scratched name marks, he always slept on the verandah
all seasons, all eight legs. water crashes into water,
pools like candle-wax. lizards eat everything but the head.
the pane cleaned with a dirty cloth, streaks over the hare.

as if the last light means nothing, he munches the tops off,
doesn't react to window knocks.

J.P. Quinton