You strummed my armchair
and told me that I was love,
took diamond dirt from claws
and made cookies,

pans with patterned octaves
showing heat in rings
to read a glass ceiling
and rain bulbs of grape light

your haircut on fire with grease
the indoor dew of early morning haze
and the neighborhoods
shocked through with purple light
and blinking crooked

your eyes on a heap of ten men
pouring through your window way
and knocked back by a voice-like door
the half-rotten mouth
snatching baritone's rusty perfection

from the strung-out air
together with coin-tossed glasses.