Circling the lake
wounded into pilgrimage
swimming for fiery logs
in an upside down planetarium.

Plunging either side of the canyon
could be worse.
Chaining the door
of an outside web
could bring scum home forever.

Golden lanes around the tombs
puffing mazes riding the neon drought
the shine of beaten tables
tubs of wind making silky
alphabetic sounds.

Sun in its ring of vapor
steel slide and its run of keys
waking pasted to a basement window
people used to like my dumb face
gawking back at them in bubbles
before I faded.

Alone on a tin wing
supper in abandoned camp
reproductive sauce discarded
the fallen grid of ash
a light kept in ink
sight dragging on denied hands.

A rusted leaf
slime of molded hoops
dropping through a bleach scrubbed hangar
shadow of an oak
shape of the one who is not looking.