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The leaves indexed, borders their only vines, dripping juice down his leafy beard,
the old man searches for nuts and berries. Wandering, ever abundanted for,
antlers sauntering from his brow the shepherd amoebas the flock, osmosing his
leafy borders. His hair a yellow digger, his sheath ensuring accessibility he
leans back trilling his satiety to the landscape like a wolf, a laptop an old man
hiding amid the roots of a great tree till the insect laughter of green eyed pans
rings no longer in his ears. The right of way will be protected because its
hooves are roots. It grew up like permissible hessian, like a dream that I had,
and filled the orange sky with branches. The shepherd cannot be both a regulator
and a trader just because the branches all just twisted into these epic pianos. Their
doors tremble to certain magics and you see the wood is not a problem, not a goat
but an old man shivering under the ground. Before our teeth, this was a desert.
The shrine’s in the cellar if you want to check it out. The twigged logic of
this present great dreaming informs us we are termites. Termite pan informs us
our hands are fences. We made him, out of mud, left to dry in the afternoon sun.