{last night}
My after-work Carlton Light rolls over building
tops, bottoms dangling like old legs:
Abseil dear god, abseil.
Dingle-berri birds bounce on brick slacks, ribald silken
stain party dresses, and eat rye smog on erect
torsos slinking into freeway pleats.
Pushing on towards haunch mountains, pleat smog swirls off
at eighty or so — just howling out wind near the foot,
and as the bottom bells out,
{this morning}
my car is baby shoe hue.