THUNDERSTONE RACEWAY

for Leslie Dorcus

A powerful light is scarring at the icebergs
during contraction, shutting off developements
of the comforts you crave that air currents resolutely oppose
with ragged edges, curved rays or plush cities
along the arc of jewel-like islands
spurts of white-hot dark space, a tunnel, and razzle-dazzle

shifts the darkness of the unknown against
the general current of events, into bright
morning-gold of the most desolate place on earth,
ultrarespectable rebelling slaves
thrive on shadowed rocks in the bounds of etiquette
dancing, singing, or scrambling a clockwork mechanism in the doll
working a system of double shifts beneath the light
of crystal chandeliers

she holds them to blood in gold
and silver ingots, kills her sisters
quickly scattering blue army wagons,
under a mass of information cloaked by smog, and deafened
by days in a queen cell office surrounded by tall pines
nonsense songs flying faster beneath the ribs