My days are ghostly bulbs that float

through the pulsings of

thick veiled afternoons

in the tide of stones

I'm a turning utensil

in dreams of dripping light

I fly above painted roads

watching tunnels dug up

turn slow machine somersaults

men's bodies tied to churning clocks

and women folding chloroform cloths.

In the cracks between ransacked calendars,

in the pools left behind by receding darkness,

I trim hedges that hold fortress doors,

I pile up hordes of spirit-tongued vitamins,

I watch the fan blades articulate

unceasing circles, in tubs of zinc tubes

I rinse the blood of brakes

on dawn's awareness,

I swing the chains with vacant hooks

for all the puppets who are gone.