Hawk roasting a
pig in the wild
thick tines of
hedge wenned from
a plain sense of
trackless waste
in a man―
the sword that’s
erupted upon
it is built with
a practice, airy
sayings that must
be retooled with
the clear and
level mirage
of one’s gaze―
when the hedge
is coals the pig
is done,
whispering,
the hawk files
(sic)
away (the sayings).
