Who knows what fine stuff
you have been woven from,

sweet garbage charmer,
knuckle droid of onions.

Casting the pitch
in a flapping flag,
a set of curves,

a fled permanent rapture.

Aisles tossing in the cucumber,
the taped-open ducts,

the masked clouds
and their anger,

the naked electricity
quills staking out
a seething globe.

Your seat's shadow
a tether

anchor creaking in a bucket
marking over-shined floor.

And the mop stained,
a paper gone, grease gust
the tabled work of ages
tongue escaping from the ax

a flower bursting bridge
the pipes fixed

and a dusk journey near
to shoreline chalk
a flashing fleet caught in migration

teeth signalling coils
and contested cold

worn bench to eaten sun
grime turning gold.