I think of fetid years, days
when I only wandered.
See the curtain come up
and drag against the chrome.

Daylight battered through a dirty rug
to find me bleeding.
Suds dripping from the bridge
that led me there.

Twilight tongues to ring
rippling puddles
a surgical lift on wheels
trees getting frantic
snake's ribbons
in a shut down ditch.

Reverberating colors
that all follow her falling sash
of many faces, many asses
as the trunks follow the pattern
of the aching leaves
and the dim turn vaults and swallows
hog tight machinery sticking and slipping
peacock man in a pyramid of pillows
drinking foot wash soot
from bricks and shuttered echoes
cardboard gathering lunar truth
and a knife print's house of dust
one corner seam
clear eyes from the risen mud.