you shelves of clouds
burning at your rough-hewn corners
behind the guise of milky orange glows.
Stormy vision plague the skin
like boils of an Eastern flea,
how these concrete hours
cling to the bed in rough concourse
only is striking when the day paces around
for lack of better task
or night explodes
in order to carry itself
twice around the Earth.
With a bruised neck,
poet cranks his bones to shift
towards the shore-rock sky formation
that dances in evening dance halls.
As a few thoughts gather
to play the limber weather waltz,
passive sights sit in comfortable wooden seats
fixing their shoelaces
untying the knots in their ties.
Ah, this exhale of the eyes and tongue
begins to resent itself
as the image of the ball dissolves behind time
and all the dancers grab their coats
hurling themselves out of the stores
in fear of fright.
The great sky sculptures
standing outside the hall
are so telling of these days;
quiet stone watching all them run
and letting their weary sculpted eyes tear
at the first sight of dying beloved dark.
Hollow holes in the cyclical moonlit roof
push themselves out of the rain
past immortal sunshine
into the mouths of the dead
who grab at the ankles
of the last man dancing
to a slow accordion
choking on the last notes of the riot.
As the hanging greys and blacks
deep back to bursting blue and egg-yolk orange,
as it all collided with the poet's veil,
a hand lets off the last dancer's collar
and those trampled in the rush out the door
are smiling in lieu of atonement.
The dreamland ache of melancholy
has found itself captured in the
in the ballroom of the reasonably absurd.