heavy blue grass

some coded rip of iteration
zilches over landing zones straafing
with zero-words a fleeting dance
we are then forced to adopt

as though a Tarantella now
claimed us by right of the poisons of rain
of Quackgrass and Rye corrupted
—there are no bystanders

in such a storm of nickel, no one laughing here
—no one imagines himself now a tiger
leaping from a window at night
tearing at the belts of Pont Saint d' Esprit

so recently, so possible to remember
in living minds still
the dance (not at all slow)
is Gatling arachnids of blue-soft-metal

Ranger Talons (...) claviceps purpurea (...) sound-language
phonemes whirring, falling, unfaltering
into a long blue grass
sunlight made southern
as moonshine glades

though all season rain lengthens
in rotting fields of dance

abandoned finally
to our own spiders
.
.
.