A Motel’s Malfeasance

leaving the levee now: it is a desert
a wheat field lies in a movie house.

I am a beam of moths.

my torso, that enshrouded heart
that gate without occupation
I stand at the wedding table
my boots tucked beneath the antennae.

over there, a pilot is sitting on an ottoman
his eyelids do not shutter, and are not made of thread
he rolls his tongue ceaselessly.

there by the games he turns saliva into globes.
there by the games he strings tiny pieces of rhetoric.