to parboil
trots
press granite
to
mouth it out
pianissimo
sunspots
on
my sky stars
are
car-melting beams
cut from
the
main
body
of a city,
its luck
you haven’t suffered
enough
asthmatic
panoramas,
traces
of spit
margaritas and
sweat puree
social wealth
is the whole
object
restarted
of bodies drawn,
point masses
the world
goes round
reducing
the
sun,
the moon,
and the stars,
for
heavenly bodies
admitted
sublime company
warranty
guarantees
that the
funeral obelisk
would never hit the ground
for the new aorta
of British
economy
privation
enters
you of
fear
go on
sans
papiers
go on
the
legalese,
a precipice
is better
on a
replay,
reverse angle
