a round slate of green
written on with morning
depends from the sun,
a vegetable zodiac,
or lamprey, or electric ocean
beneath the light. there is some miner
here or locomotive, light
brightening and approaching hard like
the softest vision of hell
one can imagine: one's eyes are
not removed, one's tongue does not go
dead before the sight of that speech
fully grown and flatly wizened as
a dark mushroom pressed in glass so
green the bottom nub is like amber
sealing wax, so round
that under its pressure
words have all objects.