Outside the carriages in the garages
Amidst the steerage of love's lost past
What has and hasn't been tried
I finally asked you nicely, among the downward
Facing trumpets, to smith me up some muse words,
So's to string along some lines and cobble
Some stanzas together, about the crow that drinks
From the ghost dog bowl for one.
The maple syrup campers fill the beach
At powder blue lavender evening, playing
Musical chairs by the fire pits giggling
Like families cry.
They are watched
In the happiness flow by the frozen kites
Like dragons high above, as the two broken
Cigarette stacks next to the blue ziggurat
Take a drag of firewood reefer their red lights blinking
As the pink moon mist overtakes the pier.
There will be more weirdness here.
The trailing purple lantana along the now
Florescent sand makes us realize
The incandescence will hold.
The sands are lit
By sporadic flames, of dotted family lines
Of single cells, all crying the same jubilee,
With a dead blue whale somewhere on the sand
And a thousand lifting birds to fill the pewter
As if in laurels to the beaching, the releasing
Of what we no longer need not to know now.
The pier lights flicker like stars.
