Urn of the ashes I am
clear night til morning.
A crumpled brow
spitting out eyes on the pillow.
Taffy of pummeled days
laser-lit travel options.
Grace of the electric grid
wheels folding up
into the high bellies.
Cane of the statue that taps
at the end of my hall.

A bucket seat at the dock's end
one pole for reluctant fish
the language of the anchor
seared layers of prewrapped dawn
a cloud's colonic pen.