If you extract the compact planet,
roughly sketched with jungle, wetlands,

When he slide it in the slot and press
the buttons in their order, wait,
he’s empire-building. Damn straight.

The way I had it figured as a kid,
This Mercury would be a relic now
Mounted in some museum, on display

As I write                  The getting & losing of it 
into                           beer, my right hand
the secret                  branches radiate from

On the                          ...Madrid, last capitol of the silence...

invisible                        thru corridors of 9,000 lungs, wand/legged ladies
                                    protected from slow muffle machines

There is finitude in ice and icy finitude
in public realms. The of-a-pieceness of it. It
maddened me, I wanted life to shatter. Glitter

Alders, their roots' snarl in marshy soil.
Furtive roads, all summer dust, past
still ponds—a miniature vista

my emptiness has a lake in it   deep and watery 
with several temperaments      milk   cola  beer 

at night the selves are made of water 
all the openings flooded    streaming with rain 

Catastrophies beyond our true renown
Conscript us out of heaven till we stand
Embattled in our customs, going down.

The hooded cobra floating over the leaves
indescribably deceives,
flicking his delicate forked tongue in rings