Page One

Waft and wait. . . 

Waft, and wait. 

Float and flagellate. 

(A balloon makes a break for innate—  

For the vanishing point of space.) 

Carry in colors a community of. . . 

Well, I speak for me. 

My soul shuffles itself free, 

Does the watusi, 

And cracks the layers of the firmament 

One by one by one. 

I am the object,  

twin-sister of it, 

The its are thick-coming. 

Infinite. 

There is a tool that is receptive. 

This is what a sense is. 

Sits in stillness. Feeds on experience. 

Eats all the fruit— 

Stem and seed, 

Bruise and worm, 

Mold and germ 

Loves the cockroaches,  

Bloodsuckers and vermin.