Out of range

I.

Single cloud impaled
on a mallard´s cry
I sit
out of range
across a lotus pond
centre of breath
for a tropical Monet
grown silent, eye-hand-brush watching
great cupped palms
thrusting green from the weed-clogged water
to receive
the benison of rain.

II.

Cast wide
the net of dreams.
A mountain deposited by morning has fallen asleep in the eye.
A single egret, the one note
of dissent under a radiant cloud.

III.

The technician´s only ambition:
to grow from fish to salt
in the ocean´s churning.

IV.

From a single straw, the field seeds
a harvest of suns.

Suns that torpedo
my clotted veins.

V.

A hermit in autumn, reluctant to lie down
on the sharp points of grass.

To call the sun home is like trying to heal
a physician:
he knots himself in the sheets,
muttering fevered curses, fighting off
the mountains flying through his sleep.