45*21

we grow in arms length
fish sail through holy temple
a clump of mountains
it rains birds with green eyes
cormorant that dances on the edge
while the men smoke and laugh in the mist
it rains plankton & we go swimming
a slimy red stone
the belt cinched and glasses pushed up
a long dive down into foam
the man on the mountain
impervious to all weather
the nuns habit points upward
maybe something to hand our hopes on to
nut, the truth is thinner than fiction
so when the brakes go
there's too much rot to not own
not enough time for guitar by the river
just the grazing alone tells us
lasting umbrella images
breaking through this broadcast