Unintentionally

the light enter the dancing girls
mnemonic footwork like a hurricane
sent to rescue you from the trailer home.
Now the winds sweep your wild nights.
It is like this even after waking up from a long dream
of fishes or goldenrods.  The grainy music
distorted by the legs of tress and swing sets.
The hallways are littered in pretzels
the outline of a young boy's face.
No matter how many times we've put him to bed
he sees something and pokes his head up.
There is enough smoke and dust but
never a good jazz band.
Not even the ones that keep popping up in poetry
can compete.  Something begins to form
but it is not a ghost crying out its displeasure,
angry about its state.  But on some nights
when the sick do cry, sometimes watch, you'll see,
dancing to a god that left her no home
no bridge to kick a stone from.