Bright empty wheels silkscreen
my circulatory body, lifting
wires from satin, pushing shores
of clay from volcanic sand,
flashing alphabets erased
from the backstage eyelids
pulling golden ropes
as they punctuate a graveyard forehead
with leaking light
cracked slates crushed chalk
dust the suit of a corpse
in a strawberry patch
near a jug on a porch
that is holding the dark milk blood
of the myriad galaxies'
alive candelabra.