Clarity's shatterproof, haywire-thin,
Sop-strapped in a phony spring. Her
Blacksheep sigh's behind dark glass
For now, a hard edge moving through
My words like an eyeless root.
The benevolent secretaries of the space-age whim
Transcribe by committee, reluctant and free.

In the next installment she's the novice, held
Together by papier-mache. We descend
By degrees into the real, a lens through which
To return the favor of the sunlight's glint
Off the waveless lake. I know this taste
Is caught in a closing iris, a shorthaired
Element in the snowglobe view: but how
To tell beam from breaking, skin pulling clean
From the web of nerves beneath?

Along the geosexual axis
She's moving to a proven beat, a renal
Projection in real time,
No flounce or figure in the wishing.
Music swells in its sac, through which
Light can be distinguished from darkness and
Shapes make themselves heard as they ripen out.