.....

     Sent warbler, drive blood of scent
     into my windowsill, into my circuitry of footbed;
           put the shape of your hair on the mantle's far sharp side.


    Where we are standing is always flickering.


     And we watch ourselves standing there
            I see you from all sides at once cutting down
         the barriers of time warp
            incisioning a dream into my clogged
 domepiece, where you sing for new furniture


      and the lust of garden statues
           drives the rain to another town
         we office escapees are a thumb-harp of clits
  diminu intuiting the spiritual headline


        that there will be a scarcity of horses
           that the market will suffer gains
                from the dream quarter.