A dream of damaged men,
who carry themselves
(and worthy causes)
like piles of shattered flint
in ungloved hands.

If you are
laid low
by brute facts
split on Apex and Flame

Hop-skipping through reptilian roots
your helicopter tail brushes gathered mizzle
from drooping ferns.

This wind-tunnel world
waters the eyes
whilst deep-time, wild sentinels
are tickled by ferns fingers,

When I landed
in the present
the grass was waist-high,
woven with yellow,