All These Cackling Gods

I

If the pieces were falling...
A mind disjoint like a cut
Leg throbbing, swimming
Through the blue pools
Of narcolepsy: spasms,
Emerald bleeding spasms,
Something tensed off to infinity –
Where are all these bleeding dragons,
Mommy? The mother is not
Cropping limbs, but infernally
Frigid, cold. In the distance
Will the sunflowers
Melt? Demeter cut, slut the meat,
Slice, chunk, rut of a sea
Borne breeze,
And quiet gates.

II

I am not in the country of the found. The swollen intensity,
Oh my ankles, will my shoes gum up
Eventually? The sand is the color of green shut-up
Mermaids of umbrellaed intensity, flapping their inbred fins
Over the cool moss. Strokes of hair-delicate moss
And clam-shell eyes, does the sinuous curve of the sand
Mean it? I think I've collapsed on some state of paradise wounds
And the snow.

III

Coin. Mint. The machine goes glug-glug.
It was the passionate intensity of the machine in the
Coin. Mint. The machine goes glug-glug.
It was the whirr-a-gig of the joints joining
Coin. Mint. The machine goes glug-glug.
After awhile you grow dizzy
And faint.

IV

In the glades of the Sam Street paradise
A man is walking, walking
With a very tall cane, and the transfixed stare of the knob
Like a golden gate. Clack, clack. Each clatter on the back
Of the pavement clicks like a key through the rest
Of the pavement clattering, clacking: clack.