silver tinsel combers...garner the stagey
magnetism of a bloated rock.
white with premadonna
enmities--a voice of mint tea.
burnt cold to the aureole of an angel--
that chews a piece of straw blown off a
seaside manger.
walking into a darkened audience--
as wind's follow through too numb to
taste salt, spreads it.
under the crackles of tires and feet, going to the head of deader stretches.
to the whelming twenty-one grams of each holiday light, save for weightlessness.
alighting against windows that respirate a scene.
where a current of air made by an originless movement greets a red candle--
its flame does not recognize.