Alchemisland

I find

Condemned signs

Wasted on house outsides.

Could be worn neckwise

Gracing a tie’s prideful place.

Debasement isn’t just a room closer to clay, lacking casement

Where are stacked lapsing containers

Full of thumbthacks and lava lamps still now as car-whacked babies

Bucks, books, buckets rusted from last summer’s floods

Many a time served well during busted flush junctures

Moth-eaten jumpers and scale models of hulking junkers

I’m whacked, partly to forget the fact that I’m not getting any younger

Watching winter-warning, snow-forming

Waxwings tongue the edges of former fantasy

Circling Carfax Abbey.