Sheepfold Superimposed Over Garden

How to levitate:
                            crawl yourself
                                                     beneath new sunset
floorboards, candles,
                                  wormwood.
                                                       There were iconic stones
piled out there,
                             but they fell.

Put forth
               new accidents:
                                        a fire climbs up your sleeve.

Pep rallies
                     in the bloodstream.
                                                     Aortic ticker tape
and periodic baritone
                                    of young campfires.

Shakespeare gives a thumbs up
                                                       from the side
                                                                            of a beer bottle.
                               
No spine,
                 no ribs,
                              no function.
                                                   Assorted cookies
and danish.
                    Everybody learns
                                                  to hate
                                                                to be
their father/mother.
                                 A brother pins you
                                                                 to the dirt
and dangles a worm
               
                                   in your face.
Sorry.

            Lost without conversation.
                                                           Vivid
the contours
                      of the lucky terrors       you survived,

your house burning down,
                                            a windswept meadow
of fire.  This fire
                            stored
                                         in a compartment
of the mind
                     visited by the page.
                                                     Everybody learns
to drink.

The cities hold fantasies
                                         which will never involve us.
Life is a series of defeats
                                           and learning to be
a good sport
                       about it.

               You will never
                                         smell the bouquets
of the finest women.

The week snaps
                              back around.
                                                                     Snivel.
            But there is a road
                                           that can never be filled.

The road is waiting,
                                                                     empty,
for your legs.
                                          A scribbled river winds
through itself,

each drop wandering
                                   down the highway
                                                                  of the whole.
The cities run on.
                                                                  
                               The cities.