a fit of the carnal, hardly bleh, & not un-near
                      the canal, or all sides of the castle…
                 but ants, meantime, on the castle’s rugs
          & rags & bags, oh, bags, bugs, rugs, ants,
       ants… then the certainty, too, with which you
           speak of your autonomy & profligacy, & near
   neither the castle at the precise points where it’s
               touched by the canal, nor the crystal
                   said to be inside of the canal but not
           the castle, plus the couple you in turn
     become inside of the landscape carnal with ants & rags
        & bags, until the latter is being filled, now, & right
             outside of the castle, with smaller bags of landscapes
  demarking whereabouts in the canal lies the crystal
              the couple soon enough bags with bags…


    yet no one, it must be clear, no one lives in the castle
                   but a couple, a couple of bugs
                bags spool rag-like over whenever
                    the wind hits out at the rugs—


           yet the crystal inside of the canal was once
     indeed inside of the castle, & the landscapes the now
   crystal-bearing couple hoard say so verifiably, I swear,
        I swear, though the crystal itself, displayed oh so
     dryly, is in time overrun with ants, ants, canals of ants,
        yes, those bugs the overall landscape never niches
             merely in rugs, until memory’s opposite
           proceeds to cull two distinct humans from
              the condition of “couple,” & whereby—
        & at the precise points where the canal touches
      the castle—you come to again pontificate upon your
           profligacy & autonomy in the vicinity of bags
            once filled with bags of the same landscapes
               now tossed in some ditch with the crystal…