The foot on the wood,

the heat surging through the It –

seems the grandeur to the fauna

(here with the public; here in the sauna).

the long way makes the hot top

the bitumen of the home.

the exile is no It, the fear,

the doubt that belongs here

in this, or at the most, the poems.

To be the conduit of the beauty,

to be the somewhere –

(between the dirt and the birdfilled air),

the song is surging through the you –

that is the pretty thing, that is the wish.

Even the silent know the song

the playing in the veins, the thong-

thing approaching the throb, the Beethoven

within the would-be okay.

The sharpening of the sense /

the perishing of the present tense.

The salt, the rising to the surface

of the body reminds the It

of the attention given the commotion —

the It having crawled from the ocean;

the ancient speaks of the secrets embedded

in the flesh. The body

has endured the shortness of the lesson

the how-to-be-here, the how-to-jettison.

But the It has changed the shapes.

The It has changed the song.

We found the few that remained of the drawings:

they spoke to the ancient of the loosening of the moorings.