075: Untitled

     Out of land.
     Out of sky.
Pillows and blankets
will not protect
the aged child anymore,
astray in the compound eyes
of his guardian mosquito -
polaroid butterfly in soot,
paperclipped to a nude wall,
mechanical heart run dry,
washed saline
in the rivers of Arcadia.

     Out of words.
     Out of wit.
And from the sidewalks,
angry shouts of termite mobs:
we are still inside, in place,
where the angel crashed,
X'ed by the nail
that crucifies the map,
because the long hours
only follow themselves,
as the penguins search
for their long lost egg.

The definitions
     of everything that falls apart,
     reset in stone.
The chalkboard of history,
     from seaside cliffs
     to chicken soup.
From the caves of self,
     the light was always
     blinding neon.
In the cold of dawn,
     the phoenix brooms
     his own ashes.