A broken honeyjar
some ladies used to like
stuck on the same avenue
fumbling painted gloves
reborn from the woods and a fallen bicycle
reborn from a moss crotch in the rain
thinking under a large leaf
about the relation of skull to sun
long metal on wheels, smoking past
him stuck to his taped and gummed subway line
clawing an amp
figuring torn time into the cracked stone
under his rhythmic feet
that drum to his stunned column
from where a fire breaks out
and finds his forked heart,
the fangs that shape his silk
and the tumult of unwanted souls
in his backyard mind
breaking out in purple stains
that they assembled from
and bones of wheat that shake
beans of the eyes
down into this busted glass
to settle dust with scripts lashing
like tongues til they pick it up
lay down stick to the breathing current
poised by rum to stand front of the woods
then jump the stalks that stab the belly
the lid the gods liked
gone.