the clock chews her own offspring note by note.
her litter.
for motes of music float in the sunset light so sadly.

how old is such sunshine how old such sad shadows how old how old.

& the slug's unlovely sole deposits a snot-silver trail & writes things much uglier than fuck or cunt on garden wall & walkway.

veins & seams of weakness in the rock matrix bristle with mica.

broken bricks more broken broken bricks bottles of old oil in the gone corner a can of gas.
a pretty beet-seed envelope folded over inside a shoe with its dry & wine-dark oxblood tongue hung out.
this stuff in the hoe-&-shovel shed is shadowed now by the slug's sunset.
untold catalogues of dust-tufted tools the sag & sog of cartons the doll cotton the toy town the wooden horse the electric track for long-gone locomotives.
those on-loan notes the final figures.

edge-burnt & bourbon-circled an old end table leans against a roll of blue linoleum so sadly.
& on it now a '47 hubcap that caps a hub no more but serves instead as a bowl for bolts with no nuts deployed at random among dead webs.
in the heavy-duty containers of white ice cream canteens of blood are buried.
industrial dust & cocker scabs make cartridge belts that ring Saturn in a waltzing free-fall jig the final figure the tune the melody of Yankee Doodle Don't.

you know I think I would give anything to talk with Bach today.
or Dante.

but what what would could & should I say.

meister I would say maestro I must so sadly say do you speak any English.
& the blessed slug passing between us & the rusted sunset has as much to say.
he is like us all in that he says as much as he must & no more or not too much more.

the death wish is the law of gravity.
the motes of music float through the filtered moonrise light.