hung displays of infant worlds awakening,
wove a thought that you never wear.
shrubs should have been silver-fronded, but they were not.
words were sabotaged by clock puppets flashing solitude from your briefcase;
wooden solitude with a black veining smile.
teeth diminishing, teeth gone, teeth again.
tied spidery dream catchers from metaphysical ropes
you left nothing but your stains.
drank mournful remembrances
of green life drying up
as psychotic windmills wobbled old hymns.
liquid jewels seeped from fractured and starred blue eyes,
and golden gloom waved a sure farewell.
I have run out of miracles.