his thrill against the widow's cord;

snakes his fingers in the web

eight aching, crawling branches

where his hands have met her legs

six sick fingers on the mend

I let the wind come

and do nothing about it

I let the wind come,

and do nothing about it

He was asking for an accident

And he had asked for it so long

It was quiet conspicuity
It was a whisper of a song
And whether mid-day,
night, or morning

I could have sworn that it had gone

"Let me in, let me in"

I could have sworn that it had gone

"Let it out, let it out"

I could have sworn that it had gone

"Pick it up, put it down,"

It was frightened ambiguity
Dandelioning along
It was frozen in the postal-state
It was a letter never drawn

Tremors halving contiguity
Whatever I'd like, whatever I'd like

Tomorrow towards the turnpike's tongue

It was quiet, but I knew it wasn't right

forks scrape against plates
along lips, along tongues

those moving things
that seem to go and never stop

strike right through the quiet
the mind is futile to create

quick, cold prongs
into that special-occasion steak

words come out,
lips curve upward,

and the laughing pressure's on

it's automatic

"ha, ha,"

a grind of the knife,
stroke of the napkin

applied knowledge
purely reactive

sort of movement,
sort of laughing