Strings of life thread form
beneath your collar bone,
only when you aren't looking.
And every distracting thought
is a tally mark onto the stone board
between soft edges of obsidian cliffs.

Mint green elbows pry
the heart from ten commandments
and stitch spirit into twig houses
by the highway.

Cardboard ghosts reach forth
cream knuckles and seated stares
from scintillating pavement and disillusion.

Morning coffee candles burn,
tasteless, vague,
daisy-chained and flooded,

and man seems absolutely
unnecessary.