Is it the green iguana heat lamp, for future movies
as a figure of shadow and screen renown perhaps?
Or the toilet seat riser that no one will want, will it
cling to me like the memory of an elephant?
The felt casters of a thousand broken chairs
and paint enough for a mausoleum,
The gardener will be gone, the mauve gloves will have
slipped on,
There are never enough Goodwill runs to take
the finish off the hands
Of the disposable experience, that rests now next
to the trash receptacles, in Zen balance.
The dragon sees the sky red
and all of the leaves are crying.
Make of me what you wish, kind spirit, as you spin
the fated fool's wheel like a Colt revolver
And the bated breath blows out to soil and solitude,
small house with dog on the outskirts of Yuma,
And another family filed as a chapter in my saga,
my postcards from another world
I pin to my heart of cork like a flag that is only the past
and, therefore, proven wrong
But still stirring its lies in the pale light of fear
where absence once swam
And it's waiting again, the Swan,
ever black as the night is long.
