Nibbling at a piece of moon
I lost the zero line
of my violence
mapping the lone
jungle.
The waning light
flaunting the peaks
for docking
the missile
in dark.
The body of water,
prior to the tempest,
will invite the brown
creator to pull
the ropes.
The past reappears,
shows presence.
I search word anchors
to reach
buoyancy.