Keep rowing the blade
through all the glazed sticklers,
wind the snaking aisles
looking without them,
the web in the jar,
the fetid clutch reuniting limbs,
a standing cube, the nude one
with the long gloves,
dust producing fiction,
a seated pearl.

The island stacked with high tools
and tools in tool boxes.
Snow's channels running with
dressed heads and gliding
over veiny shovels.

Screens on an acid moon
the framed shelter
a boomerang heart
and the mirrored calling.