The world has come up to my window

to tell me it’s not too late

to tell me yes yes you too are still alive
The gods and demons of the Śatapathabrāhmaṇa

have left their eye lids

along with their creation, destruction saliva

in recesses of the purple wood

where my monkey-self swings

watching shadow bubbles column

like oil from disappeared planes
How often I have felt like a gaudy insect

in those gloomy, effulgent kitchens where

gods and demons and poems

loom above my lamb steak

and the profundity is knowing

that they too will overlook the fur

that trellises me but I can’t see
My head anti-missile chaffs and flares

and it feels like the tails of the comets are conspiring

against me in my latest dark irrationality

Or is it my super awareness? It is it is in this fringe of the park

which is a page the drug lords also read
I will refuse to be a wolf beyond my white banishment

I will walk through the banistered puddles

of stated houses in the sense of an incorporeal cube

not slowing down 
The sleeper trains are mating

The slender comets have treacled from their sky warrens

to be folded arm-over-arm

and fused as sun is into grass
Today it feels like sundown

The islands look violated and majestic

All the fire and all the black