my perfect, my binding, my client-language

prick through this bill

you bull. bore your way

into texture.

and then you too are green.

and then grow hairs like me, then bathe

the wounds in shampoo. head and shoulders

willing shards of hair are rock-growth

and the tooth-wisp is nothing

but a babel-wither, a

ring of pulpits,

a raging crown.

first, narrative was the washing.

then pulling is a strong wall

that only cloud can force

out of lamps. by this

a parchment stretches

a serotonin-field further

than stargazing and cattle-grazing

thick into the flat mind

of love, or the local grenade of history.

in the salt-room a clay tablet instructs how to construct a pine tree.

hear the fungus on the world-tree tell

with tiny lips

how to blow a horn so that a red clay-roof

blossoms. under, a man teaches

how snow makes the most accurate wheels

and questions the forum

about lucidity.