Her harps on the wind

fill the half bashed ears

of one destined to be the bad guy,

to paint the wet horizon regardless

to inner eye's perfection,

while she laughs

from her whole balcony

and the strings resound.

To label crates

with minutely manufactured

wheels of sound

in an invincible attic tower

my childhood's head in blankets

is a flash lit wound

and mirror begging back the twilight

where bones lean and I lie down.