Paper sticks holding up a leafy body
fan blades pulsing from a far wall
red foam of bricks in tinsel
coat hanger hooks gesturing
like curled fingers
to a lonely room.

The quills of a creator's fingers
suffering in darkness
escaping heat of long-limbed machines
tapping empty pipes into soil
crushing clay formations
into the vein-led earth,
the prowl of the ocean.

Shades on the light that will not fade
through the cool millions.
Thrower of womb-fond lightning
dressed as his own dancing daughter
in the cemetery of square things
with his equator of oval mouths
singing to tar and feathers.