Fields of concrete, litin dark.Like a beachscuttler at dawn,before crowds arrive,shuffling briskly from flittingsat the edge…
within a cylinder of sun,warm glass matte with lazy dustrays brush the forehead in timewith pleasant thoughts
this room a nationinhabitants all shining, glidingsoft, bustled pirouettes on warbled wood…
Why do I write nothingbut lies?
At night the blank skylike studded paper, windly whispers.
Reel from preen of an oldand stinking death.We rage intoa maim of stitches,heart-hungered for quickened thrum asskin wears cold rain,dirt, a furnaced crush of laughter,the blaze of singing light.