Green tinted windows to the sea
reserved for plunder;
an eye growing beautifully
in the center of the body.
A tour of glass that never ends,
carting beds of silk on long-handled steam.
The whip of streets cracking over our foreheads.
Printed lives terrorizing the colors.
Comb of toxic suds in a long hallway of dirt.
Summoned cacophony raining lint
from a gash in the afternoon, wired pretzel people
in the upper rooms, fanging attics with sound and vapors.
Imps in the far-fetched, catching nuggets
from golden blueberry hills.