oil trundles forward
shelving beneath breakers choking
naiads, sea-horses
the unpent rage
resentment without shape, distinction
               coal-dust clouds, knee-deep
coal dust
snapping at the air, the mouths
mimic a chorus of lip-
syncing backup singers, their
teeth desert-sun-bleached bones
lips cracked beneath
the perfumed gloss
                                     the square
glasses and perfect hair
of necromancy
they rise from their seats,
those young men in evening
dress, fling their desire
at her feet en masse
                                     is she
a magician’s robot? will it
rain tomorrow? what’s making that noise
beneath the hood? did you find
the check-book? did he answer
the phone? what does this sign
mean? really?
                           the sky
did not fall, after all, nor
did the earth open
to swallow us up
lubricants are available
in gay profusion, scented,
flavored, even colored I’d
guess
            (I’ve stolen “gay profusion”
from Van Morrison, but suspect
he stole it first)