the myth is neither here nor there
it's just blue lake stains and green
and purified and parcelled squares
a crazy quilt of spearmint
of mustard and honey tones
a scuffed-up kitchen floor
of tiles on top of bones with a big trap door
towns down diagonal lines
disappear and drop out of sight
and underneath the grit and glare
in the unfettered nothingness and thin air
as herds of clouds lazily graze
on thermal sighs of delight
the starpainters are taking over now
their scaffolding is in its place
your anaesthesiologist tonight
is washing up and on her way