He glides across the cold asphalt
this man of indeterminate age,
Hair tinged gray, eyes to match.
Singing and grooving to the music
Of the celestial spheres heard clear as mountain waters.
Collapse into his manhood
He is not like the other men,
a beer and a historical allegory,
He will guide you to a lumberyard,
where he'll record our voice, and photograph your mouth.
Paint the walls passion red, greed green, purest aqua.

When he enters, and the portcullis opens,
Ringing of a bell, there will be noise.
You will open fifteen portals, and swim with your senses.
Outside, an intermittent, pindrop noise and Cold waters, that taste of honey.
the release ... of a night sky of solar energy,
White, red, yellow, and blue lights blazing.
He'll follow the cloth to the seam and memorize each stitch of your skin,
Bend your strings until two hundred silk pillows shower down,
Two bodies buried beneath breathing only each other.