The stars whirl over friendly oceans (this is new)
and hear a voice calling (this is a man having
a fantasy):

would you hear me again, back at 5 o clock,
with my voice less hoarse, in front
of the same fireplace that burned
at 5 o clock, when the room was young
and everybody wore the same sweater?

The boards glide over dumb oceans
as the core turns like a steel drill
being pushed

now that my house has found a wide field to comfortably collapse in

I'll beg for your hands, I'll pump the well