In fantasy land they eat melodrama
like pudding and have eyes the size
of coffee cups. On a corner, men carve
faces from meat loaf and the citizens
dream of frogs and hunger.
Underground air drifts. It meets the grates
out and divides into fifths and bleeds along
the edges. The smoke’s white and the wind chimes
click to the passing of the planets, instigating
dance and wantonness. Sometimes I long
to tear my heart out.
In the green, people have stopped to watch
honey ants hump a butterfly to a hole as big
as a tire wheel. The wings scatter among
disregarded papers, blueprints of a neighbor’s
home, maps of lands fled from forever.
Spent tickets plug the chain links of a small square
where sweet bones have been ground for fertilizer
and buried with seedlings. Already,
you can hear them speak in short syllabics,
yearn for the edges of plateaus.
They’re soon to bloom into the imaginings of the mad.
