The peacock of my eyelids is panopticon recreation. The nerve supply lied symmetries of mammoth fleece, a spade of hearts, pyramids of granite, erect geysers in eruption. Crawl a tongue across their slopes volcanic. I mist this emerald empty and patent. The scene of presence is cascade and avalanche. A bath of html. The sage pattern of fowls in their drunken flights is a theory of crests and partial circumferences. Too many eyes in the movement of my mouth, too many perjuries of blooming appendages. Maybe on the walk home I’ll carry my sandals between the middle and index of my plumage. Line of sight: rope bridge. A noose was tied to it unfocusing cliffs and palm trees. Look me in the eye, from which I pulverize and am granules. On the other side was “police line – do not cross” upturned into a bench, quadruped legs pointing skyward. I splintered the armrest to fashion a toothpick. Sleep is my mating ritual. My eyes will shut soon.