(i)
A low-gear gale
throttles night
with a floated hum.
Changes tone
to a purr and thrum.
Black bushes
of evening sky grow
through
air's shivering buzz.
Brush sheets of breeze
to spray
flint space across
a yawning window.
Quiver in feats
of a sneeze,
as leaves whisper
from a swimming,
horn-blowing tree
and fly down,
flapping bird's wings.
They squelch
through
a swollen muddy lawn
softened by dawn
still light years off,
a night sky flinging back
rays of sun
woven by jumping
cutting rays
ricocheted
by a lake's silver mat.
(ii)
In the bush
of my layered
beddings,
I turn over,
my arms
branchy thick-lipped
machetes
clearing off threads
from ripped sheets
squeaking
through springs and wires
from flying
window-hurled puffs.
My legs squirrel
out bobbing
through sheets
and a blanket
creeping, slithering
under leafy stalks
of blanket seams.
Falling out
with the back
of a black sheep
bleating
under my bed.
And through grasslands
of wool
unfolding from balls
of thick threads
I kick with rod legs,
I guide my loud
cave-mouthed animals
to sleep
under a pillow
harboring silence.
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