In all your stricter accompaniments I would come out the guesser. Just as you might wait for something to cross the slopes of your mind, I lie and wait. I stick to your outline like some fake, glow-in-the-dark slime. Plenty of glue but nothing to stick to. I wit for somebody to cough it up. Eyes are halt on file. Ideas are half on fire. What you think you reveal the reverse. Fields of consciousness grow tired and become fields of sleep. An immense microscope draws it inside. An interior wilderness takes the place of the streets. In language we murmur to discuss. The dream of us vanishes. All is one, but one what? The shady activity of turning back the clocks. Riddles crept like lyrebirds. Language cruises, planets hum. Pulling the crank for edging as a kinder calliope. Our new home is an olive branch. A place in which to compose.