like paper mache
that never dries

like hands with
unpredictable fingers

like a cavern cast
in paint

like a funeral dirge
for the gut-feeling

like a white horse
in the fjord, and rain

like her hair in
knots and knots

like the way
fruit flies fly

like a seed in
soil beds, and root rots

like the morning to
a million eyes

like concrete towers
on the tongue

like the way
we die