the impractical joy

finch driven in the mist, where the slow songs gift ether-
too a helium moon. somehow conjoined in the diaspora
with hips that sway at the lips of the Desert… uncoiled by the heat
of a fathom of sun, drenched in your Afterlife
like an uncommon Ghost.

on the stairs where the house forgets Itself.
and twirls like a scarecrow in a hurricane farm-
the light is more honest than sunset…
and the bricks in your eyes are butterflies.
angry butterflies.

but the impractical joy of living
is its own mask.
and you wear out 
your welcome

like a last
gasp.