I’d say an anchor is wedged in the transom
heart, the sun a roost of heat:
a bloodline coursing in white
ray, through all history, extends the star.
The crawl of swamp-life has dwelled
in the amphibian mass of the tongue
and fed once on the plump gristle
of the slough―lived in and by
Travel of matter never ceases.
Now the leaves themselves
open all these casings as I look up, and wager
for that shook magnet.
Light touched down on the leaves
and made green windows.
I lay below it.