hollow skeleton hobo
poets hang on branches
in the sun, weightless
like bird’s wings
flapping old toothless
jaws, readin’ with
archaic sounds,
swinging torn shoes,
biting tin collars,

up on the wire
handkerchief to break
impending fall, over
all beady heads
singing songs,

tweed jackets like
lightning spark up
a breeze, a fantasy
shower, there’s not much
left in this dimension gate
they gotta be going
no one listening no one
believing,

there, out there,
beyond that golden orb
is another gal-
axy far gone

ears and eyes
to turn on

flowers to give
gardens to sow.