stones

stones drink mistimed beetles and fall into
the air next to the piss of the saints and milk of
mad geese

ghost

driftwood delivered here from atlantic and pacific shores
on the backs of swanky dogs is still damp

those who love to read by picking words from the page
at random keep thousands of caged tangy sneakers at home

secret ice cream maps of roaming beasts drip apart
some angels are still at large relentlessly painting water

humid air full of scattered wings tails and ears
doesn’t stir in the wake of an equine ghost