noon's looms
string loose taut bones,
and set fire to the stones
in the street's roofless rooms.

noon's looms
spin nuclear & worn,
and blare their bloated horns
over clear, lazy fumes―

trees are opening the palms of their hands,
with their lines of fate
borne low with the waiting leaves' weight,
& drawn on the noon-air's sand.

birds are screaming and surprise themselves
with their leaps & caresses & fights;
their wings are still much too bright,
and the winds are collapsing shelves.

men in the road are all clear as glass,
worn through & see-through, with wine in their lungs.
their bloated arms are rusting guns
and the dreams that they dream are gas.

noon's looms
tidy up their strings & their lamps,
and the routes on their clerical, spherical maps
curve off... tomorrow to a fierce, dull bloom.