Triptych

A rock fell from my brain
to dimple the crowd of dogs,
scattering their roars
over hunchback epithets
we use when our names
fall sick.

A painter’s solitary link
with the crypic water waves
in a mixing bowl,
leeches stealing blood
from the red bricks of Babel.

You shouldn’t cry over
the broken twigs,
or the white tablecloth
hiding the spoon’s uproar.
Always draw clouds
because smoke makes
the puppets cough out
aborted lip sychs.

You will never get too old
to catch seconds,
be the child running after
a stray bubble.