In the light that always goes
some rhythm of interrupted grey
struggles to take a man's form.
These paths that cross to find his feet
are the marks of a galactic knife.
As the current goes wild through sap
roots clench and turn the watered soil.

The dreams of dullards
will take over the earth.
Madness will become compulsory.
Chains will pass through flesh
and transform into glistening oil.
His skeleton will find a screen
for the fire's pop, the falling orbits,
to cast off their dust and be
stuck with blood again
running the crescent curve
from a net of beds.

And a slattern's crayon sun
of ragged rays
with no chemical center
will fill up his toothless mouth
to dance on the paper multitudes.