The workmen on a yellow girded roof
are scraping the sky, jack-hammering clouds
upside down, loins and hands throttled with sweet
futility, bricks pouring out of the vapor.
The clash of sky with sky
as a game of marbles shifts them closer
bends horizons deep to blades they held in check
when all our earths were separate, and God was hood.

Buildings that hate their own brick, pets on brain steroids
who have taken over households...ditches dug
by city-assigned workers flowering with colored worms.
Power lines taken down for use as sex toys.
The chilled and crumbling flash-frozen tundra
in a landscape of shadowed drones
where I hope for yogurt.

Fossils of new moons fitting neatly
into excavated canyon sides and valley vagina,
bones melted into flesh and becoming penile.
Years turned to pillars of salt in the position of the body.
The failed urchins of drugged concrete corners
munching wafers of vanilla substitute, eyes
stained charcoal black by an unguarded sun.

Toolboxes snap shut like instrument cases, spit
stains the experienced cement, garages
open robot beds, drills of hardened fauna,
screams of null time.
The muffled babymaking of the new slaves,
wings of the feathers that pay
by falling off
into valley hands.