This dream will not be televised

Monumental grass,
placecards of wonder--

retreat in the vacuum of snow
retreat in the flavor of night
retreat in the style of shining
retreat in the stillness
of sudden sound

I'm telling you she loves verbs!
She knows three adjectives!
She's so great the elevator
can't stop at her floor
only her ceiling

it's the leaking mist on the brick
glow, where the monumental grass
smiles, the circulation of living glass
hair of the mother, father,
lover, child, cat, enigma

we will flood the baskets of crust,
the murmurs of autumn
the whirling muscles of night

register now for the
pale undershirt of dawn
greet the new flame
with spangles of innocence

leave the ache behind in
your other throat

no promise too viral
no stone too placid
no finger too hidden
no better dampness anywhere

one more word
come on one
more word just
another

I am the last of my kind
who rode a trolley
who swore with real wool
and paint, who watched the lantern
swaw until the chant began.

No one can see what I
have seen as if they care
as if the light smacking the air
spinning your mirror
were made of rooftops

and a questioning stare
that never leaves
and never returns
and is never there
but is always present
above and behind

the heaped bows
of the performing ships
honking their way into history
of your heart, of your
earnest nouns

and the feathers drip
with inky blood
while feral adventurers
sand the hull, mumbling
in neon. Hammers
bathe the dazed lobby
with scarred nerves.
If no one sleeps, whose
dream can this be?