semi-colon.

His words cry out like rats in a plague
discovering the basic lies behind tea cigarettes;
he sits on grey steps covered in
the foam of reality. The orange of the moon
grinning like whisky; the sky is full of goldfish

weeds drift between the lights, it all kaleidoscopes
in the lobster clouds, stopping desire
with corks of frozen rain, pressing
downwards, escaping, until it floods
like waves, down every road.

The cartoon of round golden apples on the kansas
of bare branches, moss dripping its loss
across the descent of the light, purple in his hands...
convinced that those who do not
change water into wine are static, are statues

he drinks from the clustered grapes -
of dank twigs against his crashing lips. He sees
the trees spread in thick silver threads
his environment evaporating in sugary smoke
curling upwards in clouds.