Panthalassian
spells wound round
the waterspout.
Littlejim creeps in
under cloud-shadow.
In dust of the road
no trace of his
stutter-step
fade-out
pivot.
Uranic yellow
Blossom Hall,
with memories
in sunspots:
Littlejim’s gloves
in foxglove white
winkle a weak
nectar-lock to trip
the bulaklak portal.
Epochal eyes
(hmm, hurr),
black and distant as
strong water,
don’t let him go.
So Littlejim must
go down,
not for a day.
Treefrog tongueflick
lost its stick
and waterspells are only
wet.
Heel strike
to the sacrum
sees him out.
But only
after he’s caught
an angle of light
all the ancestors
in their flood field glance
snick to his eyes.
Off to the side’s
his gamecock,
and unbloodied?
Littlejim takes
columbine bell blue
minutes to count stars.
His world-island
fist rounds lopside
with all the ghost bones
he’d been lent.
The city is lovely,
a glass cat on a chain.
Littlejim’s mother’s cousin’s people
hang high up where
he knows
the very next sunrise can
wipe it clean again.
