With mussel foot against a blue black chamber,
and in such forms I but hang within them,
a floating mausoleum of water coming to join me.
Shapes of wheeling feet, craw phlegm,
silos slowly exploding, with this eighth spatter
month lumped over the rim of the valley in my skull–
I understand nothing of scenery, not even my place in it.
The higher strange day cloud draws over, organizing.
The town, twilight, romped in streets wracked in cars,
with but a single horizon, an inversed lake meniscus,
becomes a wonderful eve in which to drink and dye,
the head dark, the hands red, coloring the ceiling of life
with overheard duck and turbine, star and upshot spit.
Heads wait for this day cloud, at dusk, to perfume
the limitless stump of these lanky days,
and on all the summery dryness, lightly a decay,
comes late rain from the higher strange.