In the chaos of phase space squats
the small sundog. See spot run. See
spot from comet’s crash, parhelion
of curly ringlet in soft focus.
In the sloppy slopes of landfill,
forklifts ferry meals for gulls ripe
with hunger floating methane thermals.
Blue gas flames tease bellied children.
In the essence and presence of freesia,
nectarine or rose, a sniff of plucked
flower is scent but not true perfume.
In the lunar crush of days, refugees
cling to rotting timbers, carried
by currents past fragrant half-moon
beaches of well-oiled, drowsy tourists.
The living rank among the dead.