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of all the foam that’s left my body
                    acid molds in junk engines

today, i am lifting small strokes—

oilbirds with guttural voices

                      biorhythmic blast furnace

curtailed by the shallow satin threads

this cave laughs—
                     and shovels words denatured

today, i sell god’s high pitched gestures

                     disguised in dissolving hyperlingo

the taut mixture       a swarm of vowels
that metabolize metal

                      & in the skirmishes
rendering pinworms create an altar—

                     faced against a sweeping sunline

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