By the signposts of the mind
he reclines in the cradles of melted watches,
a strand of moist pink gum
winding between the liquid mirrors
of convoluted canyons
sweetness faded to wash line grey.
A cold wolf howls at the blackened moon,
below, the naked bones of whitewashed beeches
stretch their brittle limbs, claws bared
to rake the sky, bleeding harmonic dissonance
through the ruptured hearts of buffo toads
floating, face down, in limpid pools
of marginal realities.