the rains on dead bridges move
statues' hands through vapor
it's the coming of October on spent bodies
we won't be flipping the pennies
into water already coppered,
finger & thumb again and again
with inarticulate wishes

we're the spring in a tin can rolling
downroad over its lost leaves
the car is a fog on long wheels
bright funerals and the skirted sound
of young children being hustled
into the wrong daylight,

old men and women eating lentil soup
from dishes of lunar rock
carved in a fallen ocean
brought up from the belly of a living sky
directionless lovers
of salt and bones
dancing in anti-gravity