Yards on each sprout
families playing without ground
in the steam familiar;
vines on aftermath screens
climbing and climbing cans
stacks and labels and grenades of beer
suspicious boss eyes
under the dome of my thought,
always some fuckin boss eyes
someday I'll snuff 'em out
and firecracker away
some dim morning sun's calling

yards on each sprout
a whole yard to each
yeasty blossom.

Particle fractoids
mussing giant follicles
plugged rain
parenthetically falling
the ledges catching
remains of the moon
lips tracking a picnic spill
and a jar of dark jewels

yards on each sprout
far and wide haircuts of bronze
and ebony glaze
shelves of bodies that will not fly
and many who'll pounce
skyward with no calling
unraveled under the clown orbit
of the called, boy following a bowling ball.