Unconsumable material is everywhere;

red machinery washes out the gutter.

And the grim musicians

are seen stalking themselves with rare

cacti in their saxophones.

Mosquitoes linger in the air

like snowy egrets.

What has happened to the rush of night?

It is as white as an arctic wolf.

A little buoyant coffin drifts

across the square; larvae configure

on the last gasp of a lamp,

frying like the ink

of an old elaborate alphabet.

Such original works as feathers

announce the angel of death

is selling kisses in the alley.

An early yellow bus of women

takes photographs of the man

who devours nails, as the heirloom

quilt unravels behind the green

unlatched door of our town idiot.

The rent is up and the cat

is dead: we ought to go home.