The Brave, Undoing Fire

Endless deep beginning less than
Trog-shaped bright palaver
From in the depths of my oyster.
You forget how the rift seems to equate
Lines with laughter,
All the while dispelling light onto the porch of the house on the
Outer rim of any galaxy to whom
You seem at home.
I twist in the wind like a chandelier and
Make brave maybes to a world filled with jellied fiberglass in the form of
Wicked smells and
Bricked-up bells and
Wily, snooty, warped, wackariffic businessmen
With warts on their minds and dreams of the
Acquisition of everything on their breaths.
This fortnight will draw to a close with the
Removal of baby and the
Installation of the dearth of wonderment into the
Inner temple of Arcadia.
These games are played for life,
For keeps,
Until time runs away from the rotting reach of
Arms too white from lack of sun and living.
These are the waning tremors of will,
Whether they be watching the waxwork clock of
Endless mortgages
Or the melting sleeve of I don’t know how many
Dead dolls in the sands of our unnumbered, unencumbered beaches.
May these wishes drift away like phantoms who have heard the bells from some other place
And go, finite in their understanding like all of us,
Following the tinkling of chimes into the
World from which they had only rented the most threadbare space.
I pray the movers are silent
And know how to open doors without
Waking the neighbors of all the loved-ones of the world.
These faces are legion.
They smell up the stenchiest spaces into the most beautiful airs.
My feet weep for this undulating, constant transformation,
Because they know only the solidity of every changing floor
Under their skins
And not the brave, undoing
Fire from the sky.