As the small hours collided into something larger
Cloth from the mouth covered in words
He imagined gold-leaf-eyed enchanters
Showed them garlic toes with green tails
Speaking with the past
Learned by heart an old habit
And phrase about the last of those
Executed in the heyday of hate
The trains move on in miniature
Through enlarged veins
Twitches odd intakes of breath and nerve pain
The company we keep congenital disorders
Degenerative complaints parallel with sense
All there is to do is watch the wick crumble
Compose librettos for speculative operas
The problem with not achieving fame
Is that ideas give way to basic needs
Clocks and rabbits burrow into a fabled shade
Glaciers swallow the sound the sun made
Before it fell down drunk
I hand these papers to you
As I myself have been skunked
Playing an unruly game