IDEAL

The sky remains alive with June
the rose-pink sun dips for a little while
in the valley of concrete kisses I am
child of the sphincter that showed me out
doused with chemical lights and dancing wet
coming over the high roads with a skeletal friend
filled with all the voices that have left me bored
smitten in the high forehead
by the incomprehensible woods
run through the oval between glowing hills
over the tar tongues licking steel rails
over the rubbing alcohol porches'
launchpad of the potato gun
circuits in sleep under blood red sheets
swerving and looping river faces
bodies down the mind drain
signed by grey pens in growing ink.