I’ve got to stop thinking of my molecules as mine I know
Its just the settling sublime explosion.  
WE LOVE THE PAST BECAUSE WE LOVE FIREWORKS
and from a distance you can more colors, deeply.  
My words kick up life like cordite and borax,
residue powders from the uneven burns
of haphazard chemistry.
That’s why you say God practices medicine.  We with alcohol do doctor
infinity
like blind painters drunk with the childishness of being.  
WE TAKE CATHEDRALS OF TREES AND MINE THEM FOR
HEARTBEATS LIKE OURS, TO HOPE TO SEE
but like Time the most Beauteous colors stew
from turpentine, smashed moths and mint leaves
and collect in rusting cans in spent houses
that rot roadside but never fall.  
They stare with the inevitability.,;:^