I am a flair ice dagger
but my bones are the blues.

My teacup and my spoon
each have a granite wrinkle.

Morphed by a floating sound
and a playful anchor,

I only flex the curve of a wave
a cream's lick of dim sorrows.

Flung by the tongue of a female
broken grin of a grim fetcher

twilight here I come
with my bucket and scissor grime

touching the walls
of a palace tree house

vein pulled from the frown
that held him down

sitting stacked with vines and vapors
or dispensing the golden hand.

Stuck to that Greg Devlin
fuse tapping magic
of a gone New Hampshire

like the fossilized slime of ages
with human glue
to this weary joy and elegant
assortment of rags

ten thousand porches high
streaming melodica.