They’re Dropping like Sculptures

Cows come home; the thin deck of cards includes 

no jack of hearts, no ace, no queen of plinth, 

its stature flouted with delirium, 

and not a whiff of safety, dreams 

concluded are abrasive as truth 

unrecognizable in the gray eyes 

of the may-as-well-be uplifted from

the downsized integer faked bland as 

summer vacation, bloated with raw 

material, petals, stamens, and such,

set in their ways hazed and ready for 

isosceles equality bruised 

with past tense here to stay, front-row splayed.