Periphery

Lost light

with nary a design,

deigned to designate

a swathe of the badlands

for running water.  Immersed

upright forms suggest figures moving

far away on the tops of buildings on the impossible

line of the horizon, which is never so close as to be

touched—a pink line, shimmering with heat from which

emerge churches of bone like teeth.  Their ilk demarcating the horizon,

a cadre of corpulent fools; such things as were discussed before you were born,

the art of sucking on a lemon.  Those things that are rotten at the core.  You know,

way back when, the boat of the best fell off

the edge of the world.