...
...
a circle crosses that of a circle,
gentle blur's circumference
where exhaust is born plump--
suckling fetus and be death-gone all that
palpates with these metronome
machines
are ivory-laden bells
[nothing ever sounds
good in ivory,
nor yellow-white, neon-colored,
earthen-hued--
nothing is an impeccable
bubble]
I cling to with ear
(Melancholia's Tremulous Dreadlocks, 2006)