the sparkling of a tree accosts our vision,
like city lights viewed from a plane,
it tunnels through our retinas and settles,
faintly glowing even now.
the snail roads are so small
that as they light the way,
they sometimes lose themselves
in the ashy smooth bark.
the sky falls lower, closer,
breathing on us.
it is a wet paper crumpling and sagging,
vaguely tugging at its seems.
the trees are lit from their leaves,
the veins throbbing with luminescence,
one can almost feel a heat emitted.
moths crash into the dazzle.
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