I love that there are no fewer

than three blue, sand bucket
ash trays eyeteethed under the
ReStore’s yawning awning, shouldering
sandstone jawbone pillars that days denude
to a brutalist, shoal-scarred sand castle 
sort of inglorious beauty unfolding as 
smoke curls, sluthering          up 
into dust bunny
snakeskin, tracing some 
bed-sore order of 
souls’ svelte sutures smoothed 
to a moodstone tattersall teasing what
honeybee-bedsit tastes and grace-
less personages plummet in into but
match-struck sapphire skies scrubbed,
dust or dross of what drawn into the
caterwauled clouds, confessing the
proudly yowling shadows a heart hones,
knowing, unknowing, or buried in bones to be,
just,         as the theremin thrusts towards what,
some tasteless, knee-scraped shape of the soul sent
thundering up through the cornsilk
tongue’s husk plumbing from
what what splintering
pins and intentions—what smug,
bruise-scrubbing thumb stuck
crimping a glum touch more
than a clam-cold quiche crust,
harboring salt-sucked keeps 
or a custard congealed to a
bas relief of Mithra, bent 
to push but scrofulous auto parts,
lottery tickets, and tours 
of a hangdog coppice in-
terred to be born in a century
framing a popular novelist’s vanity. Children
 
have no patience—please,                       relent,
unrectified, wrong, inviolate, writhing,     let
 
long
life be 
life already.                                                   Stay
 
names from de-
facing the bristling
nape of the wood grain.                            Draw
 
with the right brain. Draw
in more than merely air to
mill into scurrilous stairs and despair like
 
salmon glibly seeking eternity beat
bent tails against dams and fish cannons   .