Cob of the Moon

Winnie tears Starry Night from its frame,
hurls it around him like a waistcoat, and jogs hollering
into the night. The cypress night of fishtail shoulders his day.
A branch less certain, he follows the goblin into the void.
The white fuse of words is within the curve concealed
by night's beckoning porch. The shine of furniture surfaces
in his mind. The fishtail scrapes the owl through which
his body churns. His feet have turned into cafes below his knees.
He spins a pocket watch around the cob of the moon.