I WENT TO SIGN

I went to sign my name on the sky’s back. I raked grain from its swaying vertebrae. Bright stem. I am eating everything 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 gray 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.