Karen Volkman

I went to sign my name on the sky's back. I raked grain from its swaying
vertebrae. Bright stem. I am eating everthing it makes me, in the imprimatur
of letter — my name a crop and raging. It said, Fair signatory, on your
murmurous mount, do you give so much of grey grievance as fits a rock's
mouth, a raw rock gaping its chambers? What color is the sun there? Why
is its spine so broken? Vertebral fingers, a personal tool. Its scale is
your state and facet. It is sustaining.