I heard a rumbling of mad oceans
Junkyards full of flowers. Blue alleys
Filled with the bums of salvation
Jumping in pools off warm thin-coloured rainbows
That photograph the wild moonlight
And log-print poet's dreams
Into the scriptures of riverbed churches
I felt a shaking of stars and trembling bridges
That walk frail light to the ledges
Of the visions beyond the woodland path
As it turns through the forest and out of sight
Chill is heat for its own and safety lives upon fear
I have seen the dusty grove and there I shall
Tread my print where foot stiles have no reason
Where the junkyards are full of flowers