The key unlocked from the wood,
courts of sand and cig-stamped pottery,
inkwells near the drowned pages
clicking with frogs and bird limbs.

Carts of soaped cords, hallways
so long and bare they dissolve context,
and this America, and that America,
and the next, and the last.

Pine bristles lining the doorway's light,
waterslides tagged to concrete valleys,
empty rocking chairs on bush-grown basketball courts,
hands scarred from the rusting rim
inhabiting a sainthood of cruel filth
helmet tomahawk'd in a puddle
melted aircraft saddled on a bronze horse
clear gloved hands and penny eyes
vacuum soul for days.