PANIC

Bola of the mind,

bola of the body,

o to drive a pile

in the chronology

still the roots climb

up to the limbs

of the banyan;

the armored seed

drops on the bog

& the eaters

in the silt.

It’s a tale of water

& sand, what goes on

in & around these walls.

Stuck fast,

make a wish

on your own bone,

or knit the clavicles

of the genii.

I guess that’s it:

escaping

the house on fire,

the tumbling train,

now that fetching

carbuncle will have

to wait

until the knife

is loosed

from the vertebra.