Sunshine, lest forgotten, has its ways

*Image found HERE

Sunshine, lest forgotten, has its ways

If I am a palace
wreathed in canaries
in some valley
full of yellow, conspiring trees,
oh for all that’s holy,
let me burn!

Who was he who never named
the shadowlands like me;
rubbed the hands in my ashes.
Instead, the bridges are just like
broken ribs of elephants,
the trains tick away
shedding their passengers.
If I am a palace wreathed in canaries,
in some valley,
let them slice me,
cut through my gorges
just like through cakes,
lay down the Sun upon the dead
like its peach cream.

Here I am,
doing my billionth lap
around the wound.
Here I am, eyeing my piece
And my hands are nervous;
Oh, let me catch fire!
Teach the yellow what’s red
And what is blue
And what is fettered in circles;
I am much better in smithereens,
Falling over someone’s coat.

But the choir of exhaust pipes
Screams in the morning,
Spits, at noon,
Stuffs its loud laughter
Into the early eve,
And once again everything smells
Like biscuits;
Yellowing, watery drabs
Contracting between the
Heart and head lines.
My canaries in a confectionary,
Bloated with ditties.

Rob them, of one, or two,
Or however you please,
Everything will shatter,
Spurt into the sunsets,
Like undergarments of the skyscrapers,
Yellow like rust,
Yellow like jealousy;
Everything taken without question.

Ask me, in Autumn,
And I will say how everything
Is alluring;
Even the swill of mackerel,
Squished in the can and oiled.
And everything that is dead
I write upon a stone;
And I wrote my name down at least
A thousand times
And I am bruising, like precious metal,
And I toss myself to the river,
Float among discarded leaves,
Yellow and tender and broken
At their seams
Like water can burn;
Like it can decompose

Like I am sterile, as a cloud,
Stripped , erased;
Doing my chores.
Dissipated, bored,
Gored
By thin tops of insolent pines;
Yellow, like a pear.

And still, I care,
Still I care!