Into Focus

Under a glass fist with dome-eyes behind
the scratching parrot with its cotton,
all about the mirrored-look, of what
did not know what anything could feel for a
shade in the invisible yet present cage
of a zoo gecko taped against silence—
with all its air running out of its front yard
as it stood on an inflated crater; the robes
of a semicircle-twine dropping down to the sidewalk
from its solitary pyramid-trumpet. Remember
curtains service surround common gatherings;
the defective worms jail-walk with non-contorted
swings in their knee caps, their feet
drag clock hands against revolving pavement;
under glass a river tinkling with what you
told everything about lions to the udder
step of a steep incline in the sleepless trudge of an
un-awakening hour. Trying
widened futures with thunderclap porch-fed wharfs,
as if to ice-cake them into ships fretted with chandelier crystals
to un-wed any vessel from lifting its whole ocean
salt-flash of frozen circle from
eyelashes clogg-stretched over replaced
caves, charred with apartments and blocked from
burned stars, for they had flame-raced upwards
against house-codes of the senate, however
to have howled an off switch from the screened in patio, the
dark curtain of tragedy fell upon the will to get going all over
again and the split sparks of a thawing midnight were
soap draped in a gutted building. An
oceanic Yellow Stone

glowed into focus with veins protruding from
sudden weltering of half-thinking slices of
tattooed balloon-gazing from the
eagle of the totem-brain protruding
from dangling ear holes, that slowly over many hours,
dripped the geographic silhouette of North America
into a cloud-vase of swollen gamma-ray details
jabbing talons with a glass-stick, waiting
to become reborn amongst a pecking fall of water
outsourced from a Plexiglas tumbleweed, deeply
resembling an eye smashing a mahogany heirloom table
with a ruby high-heel, using the
thin point on the bottom of it as an axe;
tears were propane gas leaking through the stove.

Shadows crouched in marriage as if packed in a zebra-room was drinking cognac
in some Cambridge collection of internet service, having
looked with locked chunks of tumbler donations,
coins of solid bonuses were isolated on a polished-vanish
for tables with staring contests spinning price
tags at grenade bangs of closer and closer
helicopter spins of slither-collapse, trapping
a petrified-four legged beast,
crystalized in the shatter of tiny white
grips of a cake candle frozen beneath
space cracked with snow oozing from its crumb-cage,
smithereens peering into
a flawed rock infinitely tiny, molecular-crust shavings
added a deteriorating stench to the entire slab, and

all but a lonely barricaded stone-orchard
remained as the day a bird broke freedom in two halves
and dome glassed those pieces to a vanished ringing of an intact
after-effect; we all thought it was a phone, but
the transparent-unnamable surface of vertical origins had gone
to a place only flocks of lifting lids can
when they aren’t peering into shafts of
light zoned in the known whereabouts of causation. Huge
losses of empty rooms
protruded and wheeled their every moment at the
museum, as if it were a gecko
trying to release itself into deflated blisters.

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