tall earth

i am being born right now
there are no hands at the end of me
i grow stumps in the forest
to sell them
small families with two or three children
hang their faces on the wall
of my mouth
caving the roof of some bombarded cathedral
from the 14th century
now gravel is my absence
priceless art with blank price tags
shattered into teeth shaped color
dropping axe blades
so you can understand
why i say empty sounds
that come together as a dance
or the shelling of my home
the erupting mountain
is no longer a mountain