Just like a buddha in the dome hut of ironwood, blunt
cornice hook breeze, squeeze and feel the drop. He pull
the caesura curtain, spark kinickinick hash
and icy splash of see tap in a coffee can, comb out
the etch cloth foggy naïf bristle gap. Be here crochet.
By twilight soon of the portico, he go beaver moondream
and knife clutch. He would terse beating on strict
margin of sky, ready for battling of sparrows, tight snitch
in the unscuff glove lift and back high, sweet rise
of a drink for the night moth utter fly and like
a saucer jaunt, whether supposed mercy
mutual increase, match and damp,
and go nifty with the magic bone,
or go back.