Shelves of sky

with sherbert color

to be wasted upon,

glass flashing false memories

to a drainpipe altar,

lines of suggestive coal

tracing goddess outlines

on the straw mat of a primitive

with books in a wooden tower

and music in plastic flasks.

If the corpse of my father

could speak with a true tongue,

if the purple waves

of a schizoid December

could accumulate backwards

into dappled fall

and stone crown the ivory roots

of tall black flowers

to an everlasting pall

of womb song blue

each torch's comma flouncing

in a geometric void

each alloy of the night

solar flares that attach

to the radio suture

stitching tombs together

with a future tone for time alone

in ancient cherry

concrete claws would abound

in gilt framed mirrors

moon lit clamor of water

wound like spools of taffy

together on a branch

of suspended metallic rain.