The oceans recede,
its pylons exposed.
The great elephants rust
in the junkyard they fell
when Chukwa shifted.
Even his severed legs
can’t hold up the earth-sky.
The sea grass stiffens
to a verdant wave,
curl exposing the horizon.
The ivory house
built on the beach
(the one with the
bench in back
where children played
and the family picnicked,
the one with the
red flame corvette idling
on the cracked street)
disassembles in the winds.

The "world-elephants" are mythical animals which appear in Hindu cosmology. The Amarakosha (5th century) lists the names of eight male elephants bearing the world (along with eight unnamed female elephants).  They sit atop Chukwa, the Cosmic Tutrtle

it’s easy to know where the leaves were before they fell,
what her lips tasted after the caress of the loving hand,
what was in the crib  rusting in the forest of the night.

Only the twins know why they nod to each in the fog,
the thing  the hound bays for in the lake of stars,
what the alligators devoured in their circling frenzy—

the fattened beast
that exists bleeding
from the barn’s rafters.

If you accept the apple
you must accept the bite,
the lips that bit the flesh,
the legs that climbed the tree,
the eyes that looked and lusted
for what was in between and above
the white cleft rising in the speckled light,
all the crucifixes after and the rising flags since.

In Vatican City a cardinal walks
resolutely forward, his red train
flowing behind longer than a bride’s.

It’s silhouette passes by the open
windows of the atelier reflecting
crosses over the bodices of the
tailor’s latest scarlet creations.

Another black smoke day rises from
the chimney of the Sistine Chapel.

Blood shadows slowly abandon
St. Peter’s square for the trek home.

The sun’s golden trail will soon yield
to the purple plush of a Roman night.

its spectral color will caress the shoulders
of the woman with the straw hat and
black dress wanting to dance in the Trevi;

the black suit businessman ignoring
his even blacker shadow cast on
the terra cotta wall of his dextral side;

the young mother nursing her infant in
the safe T between ***** and clavicle,
praying to the priest behind the screen.

Two circles, two triangles locked in against a rail
exist as geometries of mobility in immobility,
movement stuck in a silence never intended.

The front wheel swings in the direction of desire,
forward progress the only direction it knows.
Yet, it seems impossible that it stays upright.

Without a kick stand it falls easily into the dust.
Without a peddler executing a delicate balance
it wobbles aimlessly, an unguided wild thing.
  
Four wheelers, existing in a heaviness
that can’t be toppled over, cough gray
exhaust smoke on its fragile wheels.

It would fly if it could flap, if it had wings
but it can only roll and roll and roll,
its rider keeping enough speed for a breeze.

Only the rider ponders that they can’t fly.
the machine only knows its movement.
Color is their expression, not of itself

Pink wheels, a red crank and grips
adorned with blue streamers await
the daughter in elementary school.

Handlebars like a longhorn’s skull,
black wheels and a leather toe clip-
the boy who lives to pop wheelie’s.

Gold resting on solid yellow wheels,
an elongated seat in cheetah print-
a speedy courier dodging traffic.

Gray on a sensible, sturdy frame,
a black padded seat, a frame basket
in front- a matron grocery shopping.

All wait for the lock to unclick,
be wrapped under the seat, the
rider to turn it around and move.

When the color goes away for the day
the night beach revels in the shadows play.

Your death must mean just enough

not to curse the day you were born,
to stand by the water’s edge

and not want to swim with stones

until the first dark wave takes
me under in a fetal pose,

sinks me down in the last breath,

the clear waters almost your ghost
pushing me back, allowing

me to walk away.

Of course, I will push your toes, even
the missing small one, back into your shoes.

I will cast your coffin that was my


crib on the soft tide telling
you have nothing to be sad about.