Can you see those vines will grow again
those forks of friendships and steam
running through the dry river bed
where we now steer peering
past the Silver of fairest sex nymph
The esprit riles the flats irons tied and
changed Around the sunburnt neckerchief
Dreams of parched lips three napoleonic
Heels clicked becoming six.
There’s a gooseberry in this room and
You foolish forget the mirrored ceiling
And if I’m going to burn it will
Be with a troupe of Death Valley Girls
On both of my arms.
Fashion a kettle with orwell pages for
Sun visor crowned an unremarkable stay
Buried in leaves swept to smokes.
The sound of reclining losing control to longwaves
Fracturing handties flying kites
In scrap yards cleared out in days.