You know the clock's not real
but still you ache its ticking
tricked to notice movement
when it is only painted still.
While a skull grins in icy clouds
leaves flip silver to wait for rain
if that's when low you look to see
the pink globe at sunset swollen,
ersatz precursor to a steady diet
of dry brown acorns easily plinked
and eventually served as charcoal
despite the awkward faux pas style
of clasping with fingerless gloves.
Concrete angels bow to the azure half-shell,
her dry lips foaming a pink V for wanting
on a granite stand trimmed green for sorrow,
after a limousine chase for the widow in black silk
and a rural hearse with no juice run down fresh
to a moist entrance dug from angled mounds.
A bebop version of circumstantial pomp
causes greedy tears to mark this turf
with clinging spray cleaved to flesh,
requiem high-notes by a monkey sung
hirsute y muy simpatico y mas,
the girl in plaid is walking beside
deep set eyes and squeaky wheels
under the rising limbs of linden:
it is not gold but cork that floats
safely lined for carriages of loss.
A monologue of normality
from a desiccated carcass
that simply loves the disco,
the soutane above the fray
if the legs had feet instead of glide
by the sacred sign disguised.
Under this sad hymn of high summer
(crickets strumming rhythm
led by cicadas syncopate)
only plain birds sit the sizzling wire,
the dotage that never blinked downhill
rolls from neon crying time's suspense,
the frozen bauble to never flash again.
For something to believe in pink
the pearly globe grows up in size
we only die each time we notice.