The kitchen whirled
The scalding breath, stirred
The pungent sauce, sizzled
In the rust-flaked pan, burnt.
And then the stump of a cough
Corked and twisted,
Stretched the hooked feet
With a clatter of images;
The light broke
With the apparition
Of traffic–
The shades sheathed in shades.
One must devise the ways
To trail down the street
Leading… leading…
The ground is not ephemeral
The rocks are not soft,
Waiting,
Cracking,
Before that intersection,
And the heat drizzles
Lifts the shadows
That smoked
Cooling.
And like currents recurring,
We plunged down with soft heels.
The clouds drift,
The sun shakes
Unfolds
The shaft of emptiness
Towards the vacant room;
The cracked torrid floor lies
With circumspection of the heavy air.
And we lie, lying; the sand scrapes
Like a rusted oven plate.