You rule a dead phone.
You make armored gestures in the night.
Somewhere a skyline is drawing on your eyebrows.
Somewhere a treepole is spinning its flowerets off.
Chainsaw sparks in the guts of the day.
Money running its mouth.
Oaks of sand giving vapor leaves to the centerless air.
Toppled monopolies of iron coated in toothpicks.
Land furniture that walks around.
Toasted brine of hair and eyes
looking back through the terse curvature.
Cinnamon waffle ceiling skimming by in waves.