Out of the mesh

of little gray men

came swashbuckling bones

with a blonde wig and a bucket

bending spiritual poles

letting sculpted paint leap

from the empty and hated places

letting seams of ragged concrete

speak boldly with flowers

and these gardens of feverish error

outgrow all man's fake stone

for his hours alone.

Missiles faint from far off countries

are a glowing mist

with orbs and angles

in the glass of their existence

setting like fettered letters

in the cold paths on torrid air

the ranks of the disturber's hair.