I deduct and adequate the verse.
I subordinate my thoughts to language.
I fasten the stars and sing loose gravel,
ties to bind my frenzy like embraces
cleverly knotted by the Nemeans
and strangled bare by sanish hero.
I drip like lyme stolen from caves
and nostalgic for the touch of water:
dry, dry, dry in physique but, god,
wet in the mind and in memory.
I ripen and embrangle the notion.
I obsess the achene. Juiced, I parch.