Place a crewcut deep into these shadows.
Insert a noise into a noise's lightweight ancestor.
Every day I pull strands of hair from my back
& check to see if my balding head looks the same.
Look at the birds; how romantic they are!
There is an object on the wall that I cannot
make out, looks as if something is pushing through
from the inside. This is like temptation, how it pushes
pulls stretches itself into a dough-like masquerade;
the way flesh thins as it ages but never stops yearning
& aching, like observing how the prettiest women
are non-religious & how in our country the grasslands
seem to have claws & the hallways of our buildings
are filled with familiar spirits that pass through
us, passing through, passing by, as if on the tips
of our tongues. Imagine a day without shadows,
a night that goes on a “Brain-caking hiatus,”
think of a mirror that invests, as if it were some
ruthless pythoness, or think of a lively air that
tangles around lungs, the unflinching of finches,
a reflection that deletes us from its infinite platform.