From the algae
and over the ancient crooked
mountains.

In the dervishes the
dust still swirls.

and
in the groping of a sunflower,

by the dreams
of a farmer planted
as seeds,
and
rising oily black in smoke
from  his tractor,

pulsing in the cylinders and belts,

the fuel filter,
and
in the men who built it,
groping in the factory-gray
for their children’s’
June,

where they look out the window
at their
massive halting beaver dams

and lakes of fire
that were sparked by that curious
flesh of the whirling earth:

The raging Icarus

with sparkling aluminum wings
and a blind thirst for dust,
and a time
of singular stillness.