I wanted the gigando set in this corner here,
the 36 incher under the row of cornapples
hung just as the greasy greasy grannies done.

This is the repugnant part, where now
you covet the loss which a moment before
brought you the severed torso in the dream.

What he had said came back to him.
Sectioned seat, sectioned seat.
The lift caught wind and swayed him in.

Into the flaming peach she sped.
Passing through fastnesses of flesh
Down juicy channels. 

We live in the heart of what can't be said.
These messages we are dying to deliver, to whisper
to you, reader, you beloved, you nations of the dead

Beyond the lip readers, between
enclosures, we have our gangster act

Where is her poplar cane? Where is the victory
of 1918? Where is the flame
of vengeance in her clouded eye?

She looked like milk.
She smelled
like vines curled with fruit.

That was my favorite hour—the balance point—
the momentary gradients of dusk

while the palms touch and digits suggestively link
so movement of the hands of each
does occur