Marginal summer's leading the wiggy stream.
I feel tomato juice on my skin
touching the buzzing string.

Impossible to the clowns of Taste,
invisible to the goddess of Waste,
invoked against,

who are you, echoing in the rocks,
calm as a heavy raindrop,
too free to hurry,
too loving yourself to stop?

Fingers never complete the needle's path.
Ice and honey; who needs the middle part?