Mystery of empty panels
the onlooker leaving painted days
to mark his step on a cliffside door
fronds of mercurial beard
sifting the window way
where he leans out over a milk can;

films of butt
playing under the eaves
blip within the wasp nest
dripping electrical fangs
meat face in a lunar cage.

Bright banks mushing his dark sword
the monument benches where he slept
and dead cars casting their last battery
all on a whim of his
biographies collapsing and rising
like tin wheat.