in your empty palace there
a spider in a high sweet corner dreams
there's a lady with a thorn in there
in a rusty bucket old baseballs soaking in milk there
the storm clouds come right up to the window there
to look inside
they tell stories of vertical truth there
and that San Diego jism has a yellow sheen
last year they burned in stately ritual
the gigantic body of Santa Claus
on a pile of silvery birches
now his shadow flying past brings no more icy dreams
the bicycle man scatters pigeons with his rectangular radio
people are faster there than they really need to be
and people who wear headphones there
don't realize they are singing out loud
near the place where last Thursday the local women
saw an angel throw his silver shoes
into the black and blue ocean
in spite of the tiger's red hard-on
the bright green wound of the bachelor
shadows gather there (naturally) underneath the chair
the butterfly unrolls his tongue in a field of indigo
and there are lilies in the sea, I understand
that's so expensive to approach and tastes so bitter
like a blue Ethiopian weed