Pieces of world are arranged into a city
where rainbows stir in each puddle,
the stars loosen and fly like geese.

What beholds the eye is
a tower of its own words, or seems.
They flee as if from the burning of pleasures,
they stand in lines to sit in lines.

Shrines shine in their houses, glasses
the breath bears is as if
the light had been laughing all the time.
Hunched before a wash
of blue, they apply time to wounds.

Their meats are cased in glisters
and take strange forms.
On transports, songs push out of clothes.

Many of them are prisoned in metal cells
that are moved around to show the others.
Their crimes must have been grave,
and no visible beast pulls them.

A black hard snow is lain over
the level spaces, not cold, on which
those carriages rest themselves.
Sometimes, in the night, they sing.

These threads suspend daylight:
men put lights on high to subjugate the stars,
a face melts into a bottle as another comes alive.

This which for the tongue is time
ticks across a street. Admonitions
crowd on poles at every street-corner.
Here as they pass they talk
but to themselves, into their heads.

Morning is an engine that tears apart each window
and the air laughs.
Its notebooks are full of lines.