The fallen fig tree

calls to a gone fast year

of spirits walking with

sky scraping stilts

on a blue horizon

my granite bench floating

on a shore of suds

has been interrupted

by a yellow wind

a thick stump yielded to ivy

a quick yawn of cherry skies

over the fisherman's perch

a chimney stacked up

to a cloud's tongue

the graft of motel utopia

love made in a neon slice

while the microwave plays classical

and the waterline's blood of clay

chalk-marks the vein of day

phone rakes the groaning mechanical acres

a holographic pocket

calls to the fig tree's maker.