Surgically, the stitch of afternoon
yellows splay-bottles or the organs
of grounding feathers. Wallow
masterful incendiaries, this
cellophane plucked apple rot,
or remember September as weevil,
this past Wednesday as ammoniac,
burnt festivals as timberlines in landscapes
tottered by violent retching,
or suckled wells of prehistoric leeches.
You favor dilemmas, as war
favors consequence—even feathers sift
in mushroom clouds—and sunset
is a speculative hedge-fund
that returns your bloodless love. Certain
boxes cherish their unbreakables. Childhood
is a pricked inspiration that beckons
fireworks displays or more sensible
outings: street-side calisthenics,
gazebo-strumming or tax-deductible browsing.
In this bodily exchange of miracles
one sees the lost world, lasers
dancing a delicate myth, slimmingly
undulant in the flooding scrapyards.
