You can’t surpass the man-made lake,
Make the land your mannequin
Not even with luck.
As such, pathos reciprocates in non-particles,
The sky’s axis in lapis,
And my fascia elects I walk with wrecked
Reflexes on soft ground
And rocks.
(All in the master plot)
At the carnival, I’m a carnal blur, a color opera
Of impure thoughts when I rode a ride
And saw a far-off field of wildflowers
The raucous heads of which Bacchus bid me
To chop off
As debauchery docked in my inner botanist
I flocked, warfaring, to the sweet spot
Spilt lily, anemone, phlox
On the tilt-a-whirl is a body-wrought blank spot
Where I got off
In the field,
I sit unshocked, then shocked in the twilit silt.