ALL BLUE

All blue:

The seasons containing posters of Delilah in rags

dance about theories of albumated creampuffs,

and the series of port wines

combine with my children of grief.

I don’t complain in this October heat;

the fires dance like the ostrich

who ate the capital buildings

of manifold purpose.

The storms of your love

washed the octopus

and the glimmering streams of confetti

detested the nightmarish sheep

with their purple dewclaws.

Seldom have I seen such detestable fiddles

fed to the dream lines

of undetected mettle,

all of a form so crystalline

I lost my teeth

in the battle to form liquid craters

in its corrosive surface.

Like an alligator

I swam from Atlanta

to the bean piles of New Jersey’s

southern colony of monkeys.

These creatures shifted limes

into the columns of a box of molten lava

and drank tornadoes out of boxes

of platinum digestion

like the forests of tomorrow

in a dream.