Swamp Knuckles

A fire death surf zombie
taking the mirror’s pulse

at dawn w/a gunmetal eyedropper
occludes the tinsel logic

that rains down between spinning
wheels of sunlight

tapping the lip of the tide pool
or quiet beneath the diesel concrete

running the numbers that fall from the sky
you can’t rely on defeat to snatch you

from the jaws of indifference
anymore than these scrap iron wings

when I bail out