A high blue day has filtered down

to tickle my whiskers.

I am nestled in the maw

of a curled green scripture.

Death is part of the enchantment:

mysterious sleep that covers all.

Concrete canals are brightly lined

with sensitive moss

of many southern seasons,

stones trickle from a fractured core

in the irrigated wasteland.

Slabs of sculpted manmade lava

slope steeply beneath the bulbs and rails

of humming bridges and their tar tongues.

I am a road: I am going to the temporal town

that burns with celebration

in our last lights,

these foggy halos holding

full flowered mechanism

skin's map of the solar web

like an empire's fleet

wearing a blackberry gown.