If I was a firefly on the floor

remaining lit in death

like a sugar skull

maybe I could ride

the horizon line

like a cellular fragment

or an astral jewel

without being cut.

Shelves of colored light go by

above the rolling carts of fiber optics

flags of mindless velvet

drawers filled with lunar teeth

slide out of painted clocks.

I am a slice of renegade godhead

and a mundane scrap

the circuitry of ocean floors

through a screen

of blanked out newsprint

one filter for the sun

that will burn down.

I'm a town of mannequins

around a whirling center

I'm an empty town.