Days when I sang with a lady

on a salty rug, recording tape

stretched out all around us.

And no bright document,

no heaving empire, could make up

for what we made and lost

there on the wheel of roads.

The wings that made it turn

were held in interlaced veins.

The brains in glass, that bloom

from raging dust, are

stationed there.

Our forces were

aligned to slap the waves

into paving color.  And bend the rods

that follow the breath of the earth

to its piercing core.