“How novel,” your singing television chortles,

“O novelness, my quota of lucidity.”

Alone in a room, I heard this through a vacuum cord.

This serious implication

Over feminine dementia

Forever blands the solving of fish mysteries.

If I ever cut hair to benefit the swimmers,

Having gotten drunken with their tea,

What will fall is left in the hands of Galileo.

How many pills will waylay the storm

Turning the handle on my one religion?

Tell me, Deitas.

Come, salute the stars

And kiss my frigid loves...

Suspended in the class of wet birds!

Fish flying to virtue

Will always return to youth;

For this we breed the maze and the riddle.

Where the rodent turns its head, burn it;

Where the earth spins, cherish it;

What falls to the bottom of the sea, find it.

My pretty blond choir,

Sing my lit night song,

Hold up the rooves of these official buildings.

To add nothing to a conversation

But two bawling subversions

Is not a giant offense!

Hurry to me in the lumberjack’s circle

O castrated Lorca,

The blue tint of your eyes swimming with the seraphim.

After twin shells you pattern yourself;

The plains curve, and the building escalates

To your fine words, Franciscan lawyer.