You'll be a blessed earth

pierced by all these

attacking seeds.  I have

my scarecrow outpost,

I have my shelves all lamp lit

for the coming storm of pulchritude.

Aisles rained upon by rotten fruit

sashes cast aside in sudden labor

moons are straining at the dome

of stunned habitation.

Mirrors turn around

in a churning wall.

Mattresses go flipping

through the paradox.

The ground howls for fuel

that the mule can't give.

The eyes in all the curvature live,

swamps drink liquid fire

and reverberate vampire hearts,

old walls of stone are a home

for lichen.  The plateau

of a singing knife,

a bottom drawer for ashes.

Beauty's thud on bone,

the bounds of a disorienting home.

The garden is enthroned.