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
