stiletto crow - poetry show

Boilers

The tin has rings; Zeus implores physical efforts from our team,
the team that invites ridicule and will not argue,
but would prefer to dance and smile.
The tin will be our icon.
Our pyramid.

We want originality or complete authenticity.

Binding the indecision and lubricating our resolve is a substance we call sprinkler silver ((GRAND METROPOLIS)).
It looks poisonous but is unstitchable and crumbles easily. It has a complex and subtle taste.
(Subtlety is to be re-spelled 'sulbtety').

On one of our walks, a farm dog walked a way with us, led then followed, then veered off
to the side, into a different valley.
It met us again at the end of our walk.
I said it was very ugly but Kim pointed out its eyes were beautiful.

We head on into the afternoon, as falcons.
The tin bridge and Zeus's words in our ears, a warm old wind.
We dangle, we are grapes, we feel like a dust layer in a tube.
A chestnut monster that has been threatening us with blank face
and spikes
will vanish when we scrub the tin clean,
and wash it in mountain water.
We all want to drink the mountain water. We are prepared to drink it
though in the end we don't.

Should we have?
Is there some other way we can drink it now?

Waiting for us in the bay is the yacht of the moneyed people.
It has a stem. Science.
We become erect and our hearts heat up like boilers.

Perhaps the water would only have been good for us, and nothing more
like some holidays.