Let’s

thrum from a
shrunken knot 
some semblance of 
Mozart blown from a yodeler’s nose,
like the lemon-skinned moon gropes
over these tippling oak leaves, caught
like a gunpowder dahlia slowly exploding, like
fishscale shrapnel snagged at the bristling
chin of some slavering woodwose summons
the symphonies filigreed deeper in Overstreet
Falls than even the tongues of Niagara—Let’s
 
watch while Clay,
like a svelte Ming vase
licked back into wrinkling greenware,
tickles his cigarette cherry 
          in impish ventriloquy 
          into a filigreed titter of Devil Woman,
                     albeit as though little Marty 
                              Robbins had never
       escaped; hear the call for rain, like
       cancan dancers might milk of the guts
       of a velveteen bunny some burpling lanolin,
       glibly diminish in ticklish mist, the mist
       collecting at Clay’s shrill slits, like light
       curls into a pewter dish—Let’s
 
feel for chords in the floorboards,
take your pick now,
pick at the water-logged locks and, glumly,
discover your plumbing was 
                     bald macaroni and 
jellied gemelli seized into a 
finger 
   trap
     trachea, check out
 
                   that u-bend, there
 
no, here,
and here
and here. Now, what do you feel there?
                            what does that pulse plumb 
                         
                          deep in the gelatin back bone, 
                          deep in the horsehair vagus nerve of
 
                 everything singing as
                 clear as your sobbing
 
                              sink—
 
Let the butts accrete
in a sturgeon’s skeleton,
skin it with spittle stretched fatter than yaks, 
                                                                 and then 
crack that worm-wrought dollop of hard tack
into some worm-slim crack in the back of the
Gateway Lofts, and let the whole city shake
what gilt barnacles cudding the ash into ashes—Let’s,
now, yes, now—Let’s.