a pocketful of catacombs
pointing to the alters in decay.
to the mourning sun
spitting like a cobra on a portobello street.
the big brass-band of surplus
from the pork rind raw as Saturn's smitten glow,
marching through the tantrums of a doll.
from the orderly
to the buttons of a queue
now open for the fingers of a storm
as homeless as a streetlight
on a concrete bed of mittens in a ball.
through a mist of red
cockeyed archways wrestle
to the summit of a thumb
where Alice; rich and beautiful
in a prelude damp and dusted for a song.
through her looking-glass of anger
the still-born nightshade
haunts her head-to-toe
through an artificial light
from the garden of amphibious romance
swimming through the cat-gut of reform.
our croquet lawn, at least
still proud and green;
as I as many others
have never walked the places
where your naked feet have been;