Spunk of diminished ages,

reaching for another realm,

bones outlined in stone

putting on the costume of vague flesh

as the soul bounds away

on rippling hills.

Cafe tables overturned by the breeze

of a departing mind

from a strangled brain.

Urchins spilled like tongues

from painted plates.

Mated particles of dust

radiating metallic verbs.

Grains in the wood that soar

like unmapped roads

under the only hands

of a rejected God

or a robotic toad, who knows.

We are pierced by the fabric here:

we don't work the treadle.

Your humanist idealized world

is going down to poisoned valleys

in a cart of fools.  The goblin is angelic

where the circumcising scalpel rules.

In the machine gunned ballroom

in the theater abandoned but for one

the drama goes on living like a mountain goat

above the drowned and faithful sheep

above the dissected columns

and engineered fruit

let me have my razor peacock wings

and my bronze hang glider

let me have my airplane window

in a fort of vine stitched bark

where men escape to the stark

sky.