Pyramids

how much it is so
the gravely inken barns pass by our youth
bolden and brayen
seamless to the tongue yet erring to go
and all the condusive flow
that gives lectionaries the bile to blow
into the weeds of the cartoon show
and its wavy little wake
those sharp left corners
just below the glow
over what we know and below what we don't
and the trance incidental
where nothing isn't
no need to decide
and the arbitrary maps fall into place
to believe a distance
no more than a stork could be found
and a butter burned stone
enticed by night's shimmering knees
and its flickering leaves
those shadow drinking pools
driving the dead to stool
further than coins can swallow
and the baby bathers toss and throw
while the mind quails between the knees
and the oceans bit their mighty roar
strong as mite and bit of tongue
the tarengers wake
what the tooth throwers left behind
and the docks hid their shores
behind the quail signs
tossing the nines
inside the pyramids of my mind.

Denis Streeter   3/16/15