Dime's punched heart
ribbons of motor-blown soul
his head crushed under a flung basket
strands of grass folded into blossom
stone stalks nicked with false ages
and the falling orders of time
his fantasy forever afterward tinfoil
an epilogue that he plays with
salting lizards in a hallway of cassettes
chewing linoleum boards
spitting out scrolls of teeth
rolled up in the boot room
spit-cleared eye of a building tilted to quiet
cartoons of a gone space age
showing veins to sunlight
and the brown blade of a pond's edge
sloughing off marks of formula ice
behind his mask of springtime.