Son coeur on horseback, against original music
and complex stairways at odd angles, always in
a corsage and housecoat. Flying coffins make
me swoon, and the doorbell, dreaming when
I answer, all gloved and rugged, bodies
delicious and elongated. Multiply into dead
things, a geometric swoon, a stranger and
a chronic girl-in-wall. Hello, lover, I designed
myself myself, beat beat. And in the book I
find a breaking open. "Look," he says with flair.
Dead on dead.
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