Vagrancy. The page spills as I tear it,
the ink trickles and I cannot hear it,
though I see it. I dream it. I wear it.
The page fills as these old words get near it:
Dot dot dot. I’s and T’s, hooks and crooks and
hope to die. This hope too high to verbal
eyes; Look up! But don’t mistake the quicksand
that flashes drunk in riptides of purple:
El lagarto, el camino, alli-
gator, Alcatraz to Cupertino:
Jupiter’s stash makes its home in Cali –
We are the curses, we are Bambino:
Insular and insulated from wack-
ness, the monster is its very lack/loch (-ness).
urbansonnets 