I want to write uncontrived spectacles To know the meanings of a matter I want to flatter earth & spin Incessant tarmacs’ blue acoustics Maligned with rectangles of such darker order I would not order, yet be insatiable Thirsting of pulp & ruckuses Aqua blurs at the leveler’s gate— to want Disorder in the very marrow Or procure from that which love draws breath Citing a palpated, wicker lure— To spin I say, in false, delicious Aim, ’til even the air draws back & Flowers draw false whiteness where we stir
