Two people dying I assumed with no more preparedness
than I, recently and by accident said how they’d like to go.
For each a party and for one, people wearing balloons

Four draped muses emerged to the coordinates
from a swirling curtain of acanthus leaves.

There is no longer just the knife, a bundle
                of sticks, and a pot with fire.

Now, in another part of the country,
I hear it called “staying over.”

The swirling, soapy lather
burns in the mortal drain

Why such irony in re the mystical context when a graph of even the most commonplace exchange would appear perplexed; when we drop out from the plainest statement in the posture of a bat?

As, many times, motive is inaccessible, must we get used to the art of the 
          plausible, and let live? And thrive as prats do on chat shows, toasting 
          each other in bat juice, and coasting?

I swipe myself again in my rawest spot, my logical dyslexia. I cannot shape up 
            to formal reasoning any more than I can cope with the tax year.

Evasive souls, of whom the wise lose track,
Die in each night, who, with their day-tongues, sift
The waking-taste of manna or of blood:

The cross staggered him. At the cliff-top  
Thomas, beneath its burden, stood 
While the dulled wood