Bronzed cartways where I have the bravery of a moron in facing death,
linen that dances with me as I rise floating from a claw-torn green bed,
frames of gilded technology grasping with lips from the forehead
that wince with pleasure under attack, whirlpool of error
in which all life is made glimmering
against the shadowed psalm and the sleeping fan
where mated hallucinations tie down their asking for water
and feed each other through popped wheat
stunned in an hourglass
hung close to an umbrella of destroyed geese
from the open sky.