crosshatch 1: Smithson and Saxapahaw

clothes are adrift in an antediluvian ocean
the eye is hanging on the line

the moon courses crimson through closed eyelids
blood is cold and illuminates the circuitry of white branches

white paint chips bleed in scarlet streaks
the Great Salt Lake covers an oil-saturated foundation

spirals are open, and stones clamp onto the denim
the pockets and clothespins extend out as a jetty

the ranger lifts himself toward the house
shirts and underwear the color of tomato soup

I imagine him off-screen dissipating into breeze
music sits above the black spiral of his creation