For Anthony Madrid
When my footsteps dream me down a street night to the art gallery,
I am wreathes of conjecture among all my salty, caustic alphabets.
In the bright, warm gallery, plastic is the new black is the new gold.
My act is strict. But if anyone asks, it was I who let in the birds.
I’d rather have dogs, but here, birds give my gestures meaning.
They are my only mirror, while I play at godliness in the sun going.
When I am full-bright, in my gate, art goes and goes.
Its path my path parallel. We touch our hands and weep.
I am my heart- black chocolate- more bitter than wine.
I am my clothes- a shroud- white, clear skin underneath.
As good a scaffold built back and down. As good a hanging.
Wherefore animals sounds go go the tiny jealous orchestras.
If repeating flames with pleasure alight here a homing reflection
I will shatter-bounce myself into breaking broken red melted west.
Least of any campfire crusades are the burnt sugar proverbs-
milk money moorings leaking like fruit when I am that wild coast.
Terribly romantic chimney whispers in the spectra of summer
There is blood on my shoulder and disaster near my hottest alms.
A good god stubborn under copper escalator oils velocities of logic
Of course the child-shaped-heart is also exact, undisciplined, emergent
Also an art gallery hung up with black chocolate, birds, dogs and fire-
Without mirror without atmosphere- a lyric in the skirmish of maturity.