when it is immobile
or drunk with cerebral pile up
it goes to a window-
it drools out
wanting all the space
beyond its saddened globe

it goes when the lights
are illuminated brightly-
arranged in choreograde-
emulating streams
of dark spring's resonance

it goes to a filmy rose
shaded garden-
it sits with the beetles
tickling up lengthy
ferns-
it kicks at the dirt
and sees only a
handful of admiration

it goes up and up
and up out of my eyes
and into the hook
of my ribcage-
my left hipbone
congruent to your right-
my aquiline ears passing
fluttery notes
but then-
what-

it goes into your shoes
to reset you
and to remember
where you came from
before it handed all
to you-

infinite times
it goes to look
for something
to match my
evening empyreality-
a damp green
wood by some
pretty electronic
performance
and it reminds my
unreality why
this never works
the whole way
through

it helps to found
a traveler
with fifteen heads
and black ball eyes
spinning the wheel
with elder spirits
from dusk to dawn

it deserves
a shock-light
buzzing straight
like cicadas
without ceding
to the earth

it is swift
and thieving-
full of rot-
a great salt jewel