In the Creator’s brand new, classic coastal town,
     lesbian children buy each other ice cream sandwiches,
     play hopscotch upon a patch of slippery eels;
             Old stump mother’s wear pizzicato aprons
        wash large spoons with their beautiful tongues
        and live inside the bellies of gigantic washing machines.

My own mother weaves marionette
     strings on an old broken loom,
          has found honey in rusted oil canisters.
  She broke her flower’s arm in a trip
               with falling, and a man named Josephine
            Appleseed, has bet me to differ.

    I am complacent enough as bubblegum
         is on subway tracks, with fields
         of almost melting popsicles attached
      by veins to my wife in Oregon.

Bella opens the bathroom door
   to wash goofy figurines.
She sits in a purple-plaid fizzled white tub
            soft grey, the tiles, with plastic pet people
            some floating, others sunk to the bottom.

Outside her window, an unhappy ocean is on fire
   and when it all burns up, which is all it will,
   there will only then be left the salt, and Mr.
            Gandhi will be happy, but he will be hungry.

(
Far off and long ago in a rural distance
   a plum light hangs large over dirt roads,
   as tow trucks towing other tow trucks
  drive past a young woman’s future grandfather

            Who takes a large bite of asparagus
                            and smiles despite his teeth.
                                                                                )