To the artist perched
between floods, keep spinning;

to a thousand brothers who
have little, golf leaf will be
pressed between the suns,

given to the nights that are
suspended in vaseline vapors,
kerchiefs tagged to the ship's waist

orbits driving a helicopter
shadowed garage,
glass variety of screens
pushing his mud face
and widowed valentine
a cliff's root of sorrow

soot fastened in silver birth
expectant foliage
the rimmed oceanic eye.