This afternoon at 2 o'clock,
its head reaching the clouds, the mountain climbs the sky.
Its cap plastered ,
its poems scattered
in blotchy white into the sea.

Santa, his belly flat
blood stained the emerald lawn,
eyes strained on the mountain
now sky in puffy white.

"Watch downhill speed,"
defiantly, a sweeper spins,
ear muffed, splashing mud
to the jaundiced sign.
rolling,
like a tank
sweeping brown limbs
bone-fragile twigs
out of sight.
Soft petals like flesh pulverized
bulldozed, drained
wine for the storm gut.


Where are the lights?
Gone is Christmas
Poor wire reindeer perched bare and bored
Pines on the curb
foot severed. Still green.

By a low wall crouches
a laborer
Stuccoing the brick with sandy gold
Brown skin under gray jacket.
boots mud-smeared,
buttocks reared up.

Two mountains meet
and climbs into a man
rises on his feet.