Foamy horizon scratches the sky,
churning shoulders on slow sleighs,
as land becomes water in disappearing white;
fierce wings of moths hover on a sooty surface
undulating like the back of an unhurried dinosaur,
gulping its own down, then regurgitating the consumed;
you hold no hands - you watch or run,
stuck in the hung arch of a pendulum,
perishing statues of dust follow fleeing grounds,
black scarves becoming shrouds.