I'm going out on an icicle to see a hard little world
all you ancient skinners
gather around me as I howl
there is a storm in the tea cup
there is a storm in the rain
there is a storm in the storm
on a plane skimmed
by rice eyes
in a lunar week

all it can be is a pin
it can't go any farther
it can't sell its coin to a handless coin
nothing is holding its outward
nothing is inward in summer
summer is doors and an outward teeth
grabbing you elevator in
the teeth between a straw
the teeth between a--

eating, in the hollow shaft--

outside in a sycamore sat
outside in a sycamore sat
a Chaos cat
a Chaos cat

nobody knew where the machine was hiding its olives