In Gimbals

Living on cayenne pepper
And unswept floors,
Intentional, sectionals
Of polyester pitches
And microfiber stitches,
Water slopping
Like unheard wishes
From overfilled dog dishes
And under the doors…
My philosophy
More on the wing
Than the mind -
A hope that slouches
And slides
Down mirrored walls
And into the halls
Of important men
In their starting stalls
Stopping us all.
Just yesterday,
An anchor pierced
Right through the hem
Of my blue jean
Unachievable dream,
Green and clean,
Eliot’s goat still coughing
In the field overhead
Where the windy space
Dulls my bed
And lulls the chase.
Just you and me
Or some other pronoun
On the unswept floors
Of ghost children
Singing in the round,
Ashes, ashes
We all fall down.