Chemical Blackness

For the ninetieth time    
the malignant lay open      
while I lay sleeping, as      
a nuclear steward tastes      
dust of a billion airships    
in chemical blackness,    
   
unable to resist the lamb      
crouched at my feet, today    
I'll chase carved shallots    
with the convincing noise      
of illogical apples to    
relinquish the torment,    
   
and tomorrow when I wake      
I'll search of no object      
except no object itself,      
to plant the ivies again      
with the smell of caper        
and sage in blossom wax.