No tripping in aleatory light, no thesaurus
for radioactive dusk with incurable ciphers.
I was a ruck, a hinge when the world ends.
Not even the pang of the tattoo needle
on the page, desultory as a gammy rice field.
No empty Styrofoam riposte.
No token, no portal, no slot.
My zuihitsu… ask the one-way paramedics.
Float like a mask in a tsunami.
Self-reflect in acidic nuclear meadows
adrift with refrigerators, bicycles, terns
half-buried in sand, sloped Coca-Cola blazon.
All that remains, the running brush, a train
and a whisper in the machine, half-wilting.
No figures of speech—nothing to speak of.