Dragged along erupting flora

by intelligent cranes,

by laser-guided anomalies,

secured in the sap of fate

by veins that are mouths

that are eating,

alive in a bubble of glass

with cinematic hatreds,

with loves of the past codified

with an ejecting mirage

and an electronic tiger

and a talking stove

that cares.

Solitary in the midst

of insistent fragments,

of pipes that cry

their own mechanical names,

waiting for the kiss that clears

away the artificial magic,

waiting helplessly among the many

things that mindlessly clamor,

brushed and stapled and waiting

in the nostrils of a beak

that bites at time

dawn rhyming with an elegant blade

that lays its open dome

with reactive ribbons

and the source insubstantial

of a killing salt

that never rests

among the startled stars

and the fabric disrespected

one wounding eye.