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In Sound’s High


Mark Fleury

What to do with a mind, center

Snake, skins


Of twenty dollar bills floating

On a lake toward sound’s high on

The beach, hair loaded


With the sun’s trees. And setting between

Two maple trunks, its skeleton, after

Mind’s shadow’s been shed, and


The moon. It is full.


The two maples

Have roots that reach

Under the sand’s


Hands.

And the moon’s blue light
Falls in sound’s high, where a skylight


Takes in the cardinal’s song,
Shivering chests as exhales


Descend into enemy territory,
Parachutes sky-shaped and ready to land

On and cover their most evil shadows’

Heads so they can have skeletons again.


Otherwise the disembodied nights will rage in all directions,
And the parachutes won’t be folded back tightly into

Their packs for the next jump. The Serpent’s head


Eclipses the moon over the house of sand

That’s spreading back to the tide’s blue castle.

The night that’s oblivion, weakness
Given away instead of accepted, has been pulled


Up from its roots like Medusa’a head,
Claws pulled across the beach toward the next wave,
Scattered with cut up snakes.


The moon is pulling the dark water back

Into its bosom, an isolated swirl

Of bones exposed at dawn’s low tide.
The enemies of the parachuters

Pick the bones up while weeping.

All of the blue of the ocean has been returned,
Homes washed away.

Light’s made the shadows clearer. That they’re in me,
Even when covering skeletons of dead trees

Of Knowledge. Their roots have been drained,

From tire swing ropes to suicides.
See how war collides sky with land and water,
Skin of moon floating on coins and dollar bills, washed away.


Bones sucked of marrow like syrup from the maples.

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