Clocking signs from the exact 3pm of my shoes on the floor, Through the picked cuticle I-Ching Of my nails, To the filters and grips In hermetic circuits I can't crack.
Darling, don't you ever rage? Your glottal stops are sweaty fists Wherever did you learn To punch so poorly - Forgive my candour But that last scale With its eyelid tremble Brought to mind