I am the caretaker of

all the divine filth that has

been poured through me,

dangling from a cliff-tendril's tongue

the broken pine needle islands and

the hard rock bank of the brook

come out from different stone, from all

vine-poured pavements

let your living song collapse like sleep

along the drained walkways

and the sleeping street.

Let microphones pour

from open-lit garages

in the scan of wide summer

gone to seed the clouds of fate

in a fairy dusted dawn

lion pawed facades of marble

giving lichens to the burning scar.