effervesce the waters in the dark canyon with the heat of the sun's array
and glow in billowing tragedy at the dawning of the day
because the armature of greatness lies within your pulsing breast
like a battleship painted navy gray and the apparatus of beginnings
works its mechanics during all your fey rests, so let the gravity of
treasure maps sweep away your darkest day, let the flash floods
signifying the end reverse in time and fade like a waterfall flowing
up a canyon, like a dark fettered play where the actors talk backwards
and the curtain is made of rain.

sight upon the shelf in the middle of the corner,
laundry piled in smells on the armchair of the coroner
see the way ancient furniture is made up with upholstry
sewn to grown-ups like clothes that we wore all day...

...we've made the way, now show yourself how to play...

hearing treasures locked in audible trunks scraping on the sidewalk
all you pull your belongs away down the street towards the legend
of your map, the one that you made
with cheesecloth and periwinkle shells,
and with embroidery's dusty remains
find the edge of the city's canyon all covered with grass blades.

and in the winter of the morning when you're sleepy and fey
recite humbly the values of your loving life in a pattern that stays
close to desire's pushcart all wrapped in silk and humor's golden fruit
of a face, remember that tragedy is how you perceive something to be that way.

in the eloquent natures of our suburban fringe forest where the trolls had all walked away
from the answers grown narrow and languishing in the test of the meadowed day
we escaped the inset spiral locked in the dark grass that twirled the world's clay
into steeples made of people's bones, that graveyard of mansions in the coast light,
bleached with star light like an eerie banyan moving over swamp grass in stillness
in the heat of swamp night, in the delicate and pervasive moon light.