the way i
     do things
   is my way of
        undoing.

        do not take me for
         a fool - a flustered
      butterfly's well and
       love is not,
    thinking the paradisiacal,
        soldering to the squall
     of a senseless moon,
       all of me bursting
      into all the fraternization
   of stars and then
        the squalid dark --

slowly moving are all,
     and what slithers in our sleep
shall purloin our senses and in
  beds of old haunts
    will all be pure motions
    reckoning the void.

shadows assume our parks.
silence heaves our decimal places.
observe me when i utter a speech,
  yet in a quickening,
     i have already unspoken.