I am gray vegetable matter.
The built-on lots rejoice
at the coming of my
triangular soul.

Paints run the rocks and trees like new logo
and glint meaning.

Benches resound the ass and balls
and crushed cans of crushed heels
slapped shine of the dugout
proud graffiti tomb walls
smoke and singe always
from pipe and glass
teeth bones translucent
and glassy white
grip loosening like gashed rubber
the love that wafts and takes
dust with lips
a distance I long after.