windows before roof,
heart over mitts.
And wilfully missing the point.
And a making a wave
in the wrong direction.
And courting burn-up, an aviatrix dropping
bombs in soft air.
Leagues away, he is cutting out shapes,
passing them round.
I take it
he is also at stake,
in the cool part of the house.
And I laugh at myself without much
of him to laugh through.
Lakes of him aside, this is what I pretend
to much prefer: the volcanic heart pump,
plane like a lute
likely to flame.