from the clouds
passing out of sight
come down some slippery hills
mosses continue to grow
on the t-shirts
that are eroded by the mistaken-sunbeams
the bougainvillea draws in its all thorns
to mix the ice-cubes
with the yellow health-drinks
that flow of lava continues all the day
within the white broiler
it has no name
it has no dwelling land
its stand is at every turn
of this sedimentary city
its stand is on the munching of
frolic-candles
as if the only purpose of the paper-weight
is to walk along the productivity of the bay window
and to smoke out cigarettes
how much has it been tolerated
if there are so many printing mistakes
in the pollen of a toy-ship
