Everything is me, in reverie, Ad.
My broken glance, broken glasses, broken glass.
Parts of many limbs, idle, indulgent visions reel in,
cross the mind, can't travel to the hand.
She isn't broken, that black trap, that out-post of orange.
What on earth goes on apart from what's underneath it all?

Limbs stiffen. The sky is leaden. You'd like another?
The earth has closed in. Here, the sluggish strokes, the darkness.
This place is a grudge. Leave it. Let it burn, leavened.

Come in like hope. The connecting circle gives fragrance.
Landscapes shiver. A thick neck forest arrives,
underground, maybe underwater.

Large lepidoptera. Less that burning felt singeing you, than melting me.
But I'm not mad, no, though the tree is madder red.
English moors under God in March are cold.
Less me singing to you without darkness than above the darkness.
But we are above the poles. The poles are above darkness.
We are above, without darkness. We are above the Poles.

A brow is steep. Its slackjawed distance spreads green.

Burst of damp green. Node below a crystal.
A clear conical crystal. A pink-tinged clear conical crystal.
A cloud of cream creased onto a crevice!

A crystal on my person. An evening, tonight the sky monochrome gray.
Later, a pink traced aureole on the horizon.

I've known a monochrome end. The monkey stole cloth.
Naughty Monkey! Sew shut the hole and trap them up.
Mended madder trees, bronzed stone bushes, gray,
monochrome, monster home.
You won't want to be me after me when I get through.