Under what rooted pole,

what stockinged thigh,

does earth's bold framework,

tempered grid lie?


Measured ocean,

does not adjust itself

parallel to y.

I could climb,

but I cannot try.

Fingers make crypts

biding dilates easily,

fancy strikes no following.


Lives lie in beakers.


seizing claustrophobia.

Meek enzymes live ignorant

without motion sickness.


It does not scroll,

yielding to circumference.

Not forgotten,

sexed script teasing

interest. I cannot measure,

cannot repent

for the lush jungles.


The wizened

ducts, precipitate timelessly.

Like shocks,

romantic remembrance.

Sole epidemic

threatens progress.

We pose like mannequins

to maintain equidistance.