What time does dinner start?  I’m going to re
 an hour, and then write
 what someone else has written.
  
 Rain, when it came, came from
 an example of rain.  
 A fever signaled the blister-alarm.
 You stand among the traffic,
 casual as an hors d’oeuvre.
  
 *
  
 Between muscle and breadcrumb,
 the cuttlebone is ground to powder
 for caged birds.  Sheets of gold
 are laid to be beaten—producing 
 the clanks you’re used to 
 when whip-stitched.
  
 *
  
 Glossalalic?
 Bar, bar
 barbarian.
 Uttering mud, your throat
 comes closest to its consistency.
  
 *
  
 If the saltlick in your wrist
 gives the sensation of 
 sleeping next to sleep, 
 shake a hand.
  
 *
  
 You saw London.
 You saw France.
 Bleep (but mild) in the midst
 of some room where the ceiling
 is charted like graph paper.
 From this angle,
 you look one of Raphael’s angels—
 the ones looking up God’s skirt.
 *
  
 Don’t feel the finish.
 Don’t care.
 Say it, suddenly, and the mirage
 will lift—
 like getting screwed (in the old sense)
 where it just so happens 
 that nothing
 just so happens anymore.