Days have huge cubbyhole shelves

towering over the expanse

of their rising and setting high beams

hot wired lamps in hot wet compartments

bubblegum bulbs that burst like galaxies

out of a nullifying light

from the swallowed womb

made to walk a thin shoreline

eating snails from fallen bark

until the fanged fish come

to fight with my bones

in the vast skull where gunslingers

talk over aimed muzzles

and fire spills like milk

over a pale horizon

these ragged kisses are the shrapnel

of some long departed world

hurled from the shell that was hurled

and strangely wanting

frame glinting from around the painted hole

submerging with its chain of souls.