It's not a fading bloom
that strikes the bad bad
hillsides, prayer circles drunk
entangled in the sobs
that limb the bridges,
dozens parked in transparent shelf-tanks,
limbless volunteers keeping waterless offices lit,
high and hitting with expressive foam,
the death march of named images,
a ringway in the paint-struck perimeter
excreting a chain of demons,
a hallowed picnic impaled
on hellraiser's strings
and flung to the attic's gape
where the moon rolls sheets
the headstone flips
like a candy pellet
to crush your feet
and the far ground soils.