brimming cup of dawns home

single garbage cans line (like poplars)
Thursday morning in the park, trailers gloom
pre-bright
misty light
crucial streets, straight to
the air port, the wayward
duck
the elegant Canadian flock
geese
slicing precious air space biologic
and dangerous to canned commerce, as if
all the truck stops should shutter
between
Kansas and the greasy backdrop of
youth
the cotton stained, deep in the weave
of things
still so thin, still the
stars are pin
hole to oblivion, cold pockets
hints of the indifference
algorithm, searching out
name after name until
the last spent syllable
corrupts
time with it valuable silver and spares
no sinner
trading names for shekels
in the nameless temple.