He is a smite of calligraphy;

tendrils, amputations, whiskers,

husky misplaced feathers,

a tobacco, a poppy seed head,

stretched out like a clumsy sentence,

in the dry arc of the afternoon,

coughing under spotlight.

Consumption; a sticky lung,

a honey comb bled red,

passes over the fields, summer whipped,

and a scythe winks in the sun,

like a fat cat’s tail,

drawing down smoke.

He beats, he raises his mouth –

nothing without

number.