sundown (you can see right through)

poor postmodern catastrophe
limping those castrated scissors
through the mechanical hoot

the sound of shrieking steel
on the birth plate as she opens
the atomic Frigidaire before dusk

slippery against her glass slipper
twirling in the milk moon mother
she sweats out this warm Texas field, afire

late, resembling a handkerchief tornado
wintered plywood busting at her cotton seams, ready
for the carroty rack of that burgeoning sun

touching down, a thousand miles an hour, dizzy radio
derrick stilettos gushing out in the horizon
diamond dreams of plate glass main streets

still holding the infancy of moustache plastics in the fence
the slow swing of the tocking cat untamed
dances ‘round with the thin jukebox in her arms

opening, closing cupboard porcelains
and the raw teeth as they bristle across
the columelle of the vase clutching laminate wolf flowers

the television flickers in and out, howling,
but nothing bridges that comatose crossing
where her thoughts endure the ride unsaddled

soft vinyl melting into cigarette stylus
smoke bellowing oven mitts kissed strawberry
and charcoal pork loin hang on by threads, that fastidious static skip

crawling down the evening counter and, by now,
in the blood orange mastiff of what surely crops up
between the panes is merely a silhouette

the cowbells tinge out the last of the shadow
on the horizon, where, through the east pane
unfiltered, her twilight stretches free