This distorted fink,
this reflected smuggler,
he thinks he won't get cancer
because he's handsome.

This dotted beast,
who sits in upper rooms
abandoned and simultaneous,
waiting for the light to be cut down
to a manageable stream
by some cloud passing.

Keeper of these dusted and
sucked-out chairs,
tumbled through a wind tunnel
antiseptic on the grass.

A shining armor of plastic congregations
to keep the mud.

A fountain side traveler
stapling his bench
to the life raft.

Squares cut into wet cement
by a dancing sword.