The trees whistled candles their canine tunes
Into this mess we call foul with dreams
Ever hopeful in the floundering living
Opening boxes the garage left behind
Harpsichords chase the ladders away
And all that's left watch littered lambs
Stringing together the quadratic formula
When the plates come down and template to tea
And the streams pop tunnels hoping lids will fly
Atrractive as not when the wind breaks through
Too comfortable for the precipitation fires
When there's not enough gold for the central bar
Where the pumps want to go but are not seasoned
And the bridges collapse without enough water
Where the mud sands the dunes where the water ran dry
Pumped into plates with the stingers intact
Tectonic plates whistled canine tunes
The water collapsed before the moon lit up.
Denis Streeter 9/16/11
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