Nothing was explained about the overture
or anything about carpentry, else melodies
would have been rabbited into harmonies
and a proper house have risen rafter pure.
Tophats garnered in a graying church yard
spoke little about the sand that chucked him
into another silver place where cycles shim
cry into galaxies grown past reddish beards.
The black fluttering arises out of a long mirage
of ice that shimmers in the heated desert land,
reeks of diesel that, seeped from ancient sands,
brings dry vibrations that, deft, deflate his visage.
Chiming zills are struck until from nubs a riches blood
flows into a dry wadi where his ooze alone once stood.