The air in the rocks speaks.

The pits in the vase speak.

The sheep caught on a hard slant speak.

The birches planted close together speak. The trout speak blue.

The lake speaks the wind and the wind speaks the terns and the terns speak nails.

The poet speaks the words bear shirt and the bear shirt says 

I also mean “without-armor”.

His axe spoke about deprivation and graffiti and mold.

His blood speaks on the rocks

and the lava speaks about building new land with your rage

the rage speaks in lightning and bats

and the bats speak sonor

which speaks laughter through the halls of Hekla

whose speech makes the kettles swing

their hair howls in whorls that ask for raw egg

that asks for hands or to slide in a jar,

the jar speaks of rain separating from mud,

nails and vials, horns and clover, dots from light

and the pattern speaks of a mother now broken

and the mother speaks green gold which might be a fresh mother itself—

 speaking of wool and the wool speaks of late afternoon.