IRON PLATES WERE COVERED WITH A FINISH OF WHITE PLASTER

The green overhead
chooses a confetti of eyes.
Surf of days edges
a calendar to the end
of a last wall.
Hours spread on the days
like wounds for departure.
The soaked organization
droops through a corner
to a hidden doorway.
The collapse of light
in a longer and lower room--
moon dirt pecking at daffodils.
Lots of broken earth spackle
teeming with cameras and cold sex
only to be ignited by unseen love.
The kick of a machine gun
in the claws of a dove.
Gloved air reaching for purchase
across the footpath
of a rotten overgrowth.
Pruned lips leering
back at what blooms
through the sevenfold thorns
of neighborhood
water moving with no urgency
far away.