Twerking in potato sacks

the hot mamas continue

dashboard open to the night sky

cruising the horizon's underside

I roll into pasture smoking

and let the moonstruck stars

slowly go

c'mon light give a last gasp

as the fog grasps the docks

and the inert furs glisten

let my yearning cover the rock

that blooms with moss

and the fern's pine rug

to be rolled upon in reflection's

relentless distress of sight stretched

to the claw kept in a chest of drawers

carpet suit upright in the closet

a cemetery of guitar picks

snowing on my sleep

in the pond of echoes

sloshing through the cell's reaping

gape of defunct gravity

escapee's wig of spiders

foot's lurking and unknown door.