The Time Of The End Of Its Day

Eat and run from my scars,
Two hot dogs for a dollar; sit out and lunch
And watch all the beautiful cars,
Thinking of the graveyards too affluent to attend,
And just as assured of the sky that she’ll
Return: Liking her better than Jesus, rug burns;
There is a pit to her nature where she can be replanted,
And I’ve stolen such blue prints to this accord.
In the sky there is some kind of dashing rum hoodlum
Doing tricks, I think they’ve called him the son-
Every girl is in love with him, and they climb pear trees
And superstitious novels to unbutton and bask in
His well-lit offices;
He jury-rigs the top masts of airplanes, he licks his
Spindles of light, magnifies conflagrations,
Puts truly young boys’ kites to flight:
And I’ve spend the second half of my time filibustering
About him, even as he is running away:
And upstairs its time to make dinner, the coyotes wake
Up and make love from the lips of trash heaps and flames;
It looks to me that her lip is bleeding, but that’s just the
Color the earth takes at the time of the end of its day.