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Stars like lost children
hurled heavenward by giants.
A pensive landscape.

Astral Mire

A sad comet aimed at a sleeping god. 

Something about nazis.
I pretend not to notice.
Molars plummet from agape mouth like pinata guts. Wednesday.

Peripheral like a half-dreamt thought

faded hieroglyphs on limestone.

What rusty sculptor dreamed us up? What shape

the hands that wove these vaporous man-things?

Clad in kitten pelts, a crone beckons me across the astral mire. 

"The brain is a senseless crime," she says,

"the soul: a ghost on trial in an alien court."