s o m e w h e r e. Where I can pretend

that no man's bones build up a city

and that when tears crawl maggot-like down ashen faces

these journeys are provoked by caustic love

or clean severs from plastic grass.

No, the corroding bleached skull

would never dare to bury itself within

my synthetic earth, beneath the skin

of my s o m e w h e r e. Its weary nooks

in uprooted memories of mine are gone, replaced

by incandescent waterfalls of

pure, pure plastic grass.

Boxes. Boxes with pentagon heads, why yes

they're absent from my robin-egg sky, my

acid-green hills, my s o m e w h e r e.

And nobody, nobody comes to feel cold.

Nobody, nobody suffers in stone like you.