steadfast into another world
it is there I breathe as canterbury tales.
exiled as one bereaved by jealously
there are no end of means this travelogue
each stage as bright as I among the fleeing antelope
now both are real
we two sons\' carved from stone
at home among the mongrels
where the gold-men syphon blood from my spiders knees.
all apples leave their mark
this side of life where the smallest cities sleep.