I am being blasted away

by the force fields of established entities,

I look around a leaking corner

for a well painted queen,

the gaps between neighborhoods heave,

the furrowed ditches come up

as crested hillsides,

the light is dew, the garlands

of braided doorways

rustle in space-penetrated air,

long passageways open through

a thousand alien houses,

the silver turns to gold, the gold goes

brown baked with a grayish tinge

like old beat up furniture upholstery,

my lips don't touch the one who is gone

even in the dreams of twilight

and depraved dawn,

the moss lined canals roar through

their bricks and concrete,

my cup of skull howls and holds

a slick eel, the bounds of reality corrode

in the salt that savors them,

the sun is pickled in a tank

of rotating garlic, only the wounds heal,

the gridwork of the calendar

is frescoed and fine

without words and numbers,

the grave sows a seed in eternity,

the ground of birth cools

in the lapping seepage

of waters that were gone

and did come back to bond.