The ghosts are hungry for more.

But chiming bells overflow the glass

and teeth chatter in the gray sun.

There is music in the gravel tide,

washing up like red medicine –

bloodied capsules of cotton-talk,

gauze-word, suture-see. It only

gags the throat of a traffic laden wood.

Clouds crippled by the old songs, are still

just clouds.

 

Can you taste the buds of blue, jagged

sweat germinating tomorrow’s winter

garden, stuffed in a teapot on top of your lone

May Pole? Maybe the French kiss

nightmare taught a thing or two about that

unnamed wishing well world?

 

With hunched-back scar-tissue tongue

you lasso the last, unlucky

stragglers from the playground of ordinary

sights, you suck the juice out of the sunlight.

No more wrought-iron tail feathers for

this sidewinder peasant.

 

Suckling the teat of frozen landscapes, you

always forgot what nourished most

until they circle back round and

stump you from behind –

where all the best tales are.

 

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