Silk days open like blowing fire
walkways to the sea on long arms
suds of hair and froth of skin cells
dripping long blades
through the light of the body
the run-off from which
restaurants and cinema lights spring up
tangling with their wires and repairing figures
as they ascend on torn wood and sensitive metal
flinging cones and bent entrances
into puddles of oil
that reflect a tree of suns,
a ring of drums in painted grain
the drive of pink serpents
to a dark and leading curve.