White stones, white threshold,
a white and maddened, roaring horse.
Dragon eats its brief mother,
the ocean’s prowl of loose grey scales,
pebbles slick to crushing hooves.
The weather is a mist of pigs, ghosts, and rain,
the moon framed in its box of clouds,
poor Pulcinella lonely in her suicidal sky.
A sheer spandau drum, a train, too late, braking,
eyes open out of sleep’s weird light
into seaside shadow and sweet lunacy,
heart’s detonation like a crushed white stone.