flagstones

a smithereen of peach pit
lies a wasting time in the street
front window shining in a passerby eys
fine fish gate solvents sit
in tight fit rubbish bins for flies to
grab and open the gas knobs on popeye

bubbling blistered fingers
pulled off at the stem with pliers
cooked and cooked thoroughly in the heat
of a third sun, rubbing the moons of jupiter
together over dry moss and tinder