Every shadow is of the sun

Every shadow is of the sun.
A buzzard, spinning under light,
Haunts a birdlike piece of ground
Where dandelions shake.
A mile away, on the world’s skirts,
Nightmare machines quiver unseen,
And the soil is scarred by the shapes of men.

Every shadow is of the sun.
The violent bloom that burns my mask
Rips my shape from end to end,
And paints my likeness on the grass.
That steals the essence of trees,
Light-locks the staring homes,
And paints a pattern on the world’s bones.