Asphalt wonder, matrixed creation
of panicked imagination. The sky was not
an absence. The Builder presumed,
wove it into his plan. Nowhere is anyplace
you are not. I'm in the middle
of Nowhere. It's called New York City.
The glass stepladder is climbed
by an Apache ghost. A star is plucked
and bitten, the fruit of Heaven. Latched
arm-in-arm, pilgrims crossing galaxies,
oceanias of dark, congealing around meccas
of wheeling carnal light.
The orchard intones a quaking, notorious hum:
patches of swirling nucleation, smeltcauldrons in rotation,
monumental dervishes of atomic foment.
The sun at the end
of the scorpion tail
burns the black off a blind man's eyes.
He reads:
Our world shrivels with expedited dehydration.
It goes twirling, a zombified crag
ghosting its previous rounds.
The ulcerations of night churn through the dark,
the hot white milk of their megaton lava
chewing through our blindfold atmosphere,
signal fading between
the concrete stalks of the skyline.
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