the suns irritate the the lawn
mower obliterating each delicate
lemon headed lion
under blade and disinterest-
butchers wine out in to the air
salad of days and days,
that collect and form rooms in my
brain for gods,
rocks
and
birds as bones
that
dance and try to take wing
but of course can not, the fish found are
found dead and huge-
the ever moving gut blown out
but other wise the whole machine
is intact and not gray, with the
exception of the eyes
and here over the dead body
i lament nothing but the emptying of my
own lake, the diverted river within
powering turbines of anger,
masked lust softened to look like love
and dangerous passions
that pump in to my heart
effluent PCB and other poisons
more deadly.
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