I write the poems of a demonic lobster.

The bows of colored light,

the filth of life,

I am stained with it.

Slabs of waxed wood float by

with rows of discarded shoes.

Branches speak in harmony with water

rocks in a ragged line

leading to a solar waterfall.

Time's broken, it can't

set up camp.

The traces of cathedral ribs

recede into the bedroom's rim.

The prayers of shifting outlines

float and thrive

through the sexes of unmoving shrines.

The first leaf is

a web of hives.