Eyelids damp with a tired headache,
paperback cover corner-flicking
--this from the fan just unperipheral;
but the vice, the vice of the days piled on
claims while I stutter these latinates, on and on.

Mustela africana,
altaica,
erminea. Kathiah i'm unsure of:
I won't say macrodon yet. This
is what I do. Don't talk about it.

This is what instead of drink,
watch the box, go out walking,
play games idiot and young,
I am doing.

Like lepidoptery, grosser but with a mythology,
only whom can kill the basilisk let me study.
I've never seen lutreola but I see it now;
I see a thousand thousand things in webs
that belong to all our ceaseless musing.

Who can say words like ether,
tendon, e-lec-tri-ci-ty,
without a small, very small, bit of love?
Who can conjure up that love from end to end
and, standing end on end, build true living?

Fan, halogen, stuck ink in my finger pads,
vice, loneliness, thrill, basilisk.
I am afraid of the things that move,
and I am not afraid.

11/30/2005

Author's Note: feedback, o please.

Posted on 12/05/2005
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