There I am struck pale with red,
soaring through half the night,
nesting in whatever has been smashed,
mending my usual stalagmite,
smearing my face into the brick
that floats above my hideaway,
trying to find the eye
of your whirlwind,
made plastic by the rain
the dandelion rebellion.

Kicked around the labyrinth
recording shrieks of painted meat
faint protests for departed souls
tacked up in cardboard and flickering flour
a root-bled calendar's refrigerator door
the carved spread of leaves.