When the shore
is slapped aside by the wave
and the storehouses in their own
puddles of neon
continue glinting with the dust
of airplane engine blades
and drifting chapters
of explained vapor,

toe headed monsters fleeing
by tar with tar wheels,
stuck in slack chains of cement,
and the buried blues
comes up raging
and will not be buried again,

the sound of a trumpet coined
in an articulate whirlpool
is pockets dug for meaning
and the teeth burner
cold stakes and banners wild

a glue tapped crucifix of ash.