All those lonely planets

There are spots on the sun,
black and pulsating,
from something that exploded down here
in a kiss, or some convergence
of hot liquid metals--I think it had long
milky horns--and a swingset emptied
in my memory, when that explosion
was young and looking good.

Under its scrotum is a series
of fish skeletons implanted
in the skin, teasing the meat
atingle with leafy mathematics.
Garbage cans as drumsets
send the signal to alleyway walls
that a hand is calling
another hand home
to its own set of hips.

What do you want from the towns
that you build? As ghosts fill their walls
and fish visit bathtub after bathtub,
swimming through the pipes,
they ask you silent questions;
the chairs ask you
where they should stand
if somebody suddenly wants to sit.

There are triangles over the water
where you can get lost. And their angles
go diving to magnetize the rays of the sun
as you fall through the carpets of fish.
And the light of heaven
and the light from the depths
cross each other, perfectly, like swords
in the duel that must be staged
to keep the eyes of the spectators
from crumbling to dust.

An escape hatch in the bottom of the ocean
holds the squeaks that dolphins keep in reserve
and the bubbles of fire that bring peace
to all other flames. It's rumbling now
with the conversations of those who visit it
in their sleep. It's all very much
like a church social with hand grenades.

There are holes where refrigerators
go to die in a sexual manner.
Where birds made of ice
have no trouble flapping away.
There are skateboards whose riders
at twilight change from boys into girls.
There are holes where dead dogs
thrown into the depths are resurrected
and come running back to the hands
that buried them deep in the void.
They are still wearing the same collar
when they return, often mute, but intact.
There are places in the world
that can swallow the world.