the fat of the land has dried into grime

mere clots of spit and mire

under her instant foot in the vomit of the day

the sour milkiness of death’s redolence at night

grabbing at the air grabbing at the sights of

those who have always been there and those

who are to come

shifting in the seas of traffic lights

half-moon eyes bloody in the tides

of discarded discontent

the wind howls on the sills of justice

kissing painfully the wounds on her hand

as puckered resentful coins hiss at her disposition

the wheels of the gods grind on

and her island there waits

the laughing air and the scornful heat

injures her every pore; her pancaked gowns threadbare

smiling at the visions only seen by those who know

the devil and the angels roaming up and down the hill of somber perfection

host to condemnation of heavy hearted posts

vigilant to nothing

in the bell jars of our age

nothing ferments nothing grows

the heart in her breaks the barrier

knowing that she will see some light

the golden days have passed onto a future

waiting there like cats

old castles for her flowers and her stars

beauty melting unto asphalt

a stairway opens up with gems of cardboard

sprigs of wasted love litter her alcove

she lays her head to rest