TURBINE | KAPOHAU

Rain is sniping down a grassy knoll like a slow divorce,
spreading phosphates into a mandala shape
of mud and night crawlers.
A mandala like a broken mouth 
sucking the fortifications
in a fractured peach stone
to quench gums plump with bloat—
the worms remember.

A worm dredges up a black and white picture
of moist, salty hog-flesh from grainy diodes,
flesh mixing with sand and sparrow in his gizzard,
rumbling past his five hearts
out what passes as a sphincter
until it mingles with
bayoneted blood, wound slime
and spear splinters.

The deep mud is stoic.
The topsoil might be more helpful,
so much mixing, floating and loss
during every fertile storm-fall.
If pressed, she might sketch
the solid weight of bodies,
as musket growls uncork cheap red wine
with every patient volley.