Sun of an obnoxious quarry as we seem
To be laughing—
Open throated frog princes all of the way
Up to the chandeliers—
While my mother waits in some awful
Mockery of a Pieta—
And the lamps bloom in the gold dusts of
The mines—
Another song mimics the song bird's,
As the traffic becomes utterly confused—
Losing itself into the darkness—
The mailman apexes, but he is no excuse
To me—
Lamp posts lining the streets of my adolescents,
As wicked men travel home after
The fireworks' pageantry—
Licking their stolen wives' bodies of
An adulterous
Apiary.