We are mad maestros tearing at insect bites.
Peculiar lacerations
slice legs and
                        arms
until bits of flesh lodge
           beneath
fingernails.

We hear chords in the bellows of nearby locomotives:
           Screech
howl.
           Screech
howl.

We tiptoe
on ragged Missouri banks and watch waves:
cerulean eels
           slither,
                        sway—
an eerie legato.

The sienna moon
           so low
it floats in tepid streams.
Mandarin and cobalt
notes modulate
           in
                        the
                                        mire.

We sip spoonfuls of sound
and listen carefully
so as not to drown.