I'm up before you,
Painting with a mop and bucket in the sun:
When what was left of you dried
I fried the eggs and let you see
The first of many horizons
Set to disappoint with hope.
In the corner of another room
Rising as she does the Rorschach from above
The stain blooms
After heavy rain the island swims
And midgets groom like vim the upland coming
And up and coming land.
We the living!
Shelter in a sandbox,
Filter with our toes where next to walk
On nails or hot coals.
The stain rises from its park at dawn and walks into the west
To die like some panting beast in the shade,
The sun takes back her eyes,
I bimble on, my mop in hand
To paint new lands
Outline new men and cry our act.