Clarity's shatterproof, haywire-thin,

Sop-strapped in a phony spring. Her

Blacksheep sigh's behind dark glass

For now, a hard edge moving through

My words like an eyeless root.

The benevolent secretaries of the space-age whim

Transcribe by committee, reluctant and free.



In the next installment she's the novice, held

Together by papier-mache. We descend

By degrees into the real, a lens through which

To return the favor of the sunlight's glint

Off the waveless lake. I know this taste

Is caught in a closing iris, a shorthaired

Element in the snowglobe view: but how

To tell beam from breaking, skin pulling clean

From the web of nerves beneath?



Along the geosexual axis

She's moving to a proven beat, a renal

Projection in real time,

No flounce or figure in the wishing.

Music swells in its sac, through which

Light can be distinguished from darkness and

Shapes make themselves heard as they ripen out.