Up [cagey] from the room hung
with many a silver and sharp utensil.
Upon the very living walls. He stuck
a decoration, ripped it partly down.
It was the cream of a good morning
mixture, lumpy. Smooth his edges.
He knocked the awful proud apple
dappled wedges out of the celestial
pie, hung them low on hook, eye.
This being where the day begins,
above is where it ends. Things
happen up there, over his head.
Creak the step chosen so. Provide
with ample warning. Not to bust in
bust up. This trismus. Bodies bent
upon too friendly affections are
very touching. We are all so close
so very close. My friend, impure
improper, he had to try. Simply
a matter, it is after all, of taking.
Buttocks resting flatly on his daily
lessons, there for the mistaking. He
muscled up the expected reaction.

To him who tires, worn down, these
desires, very probably, seem sins.
To crawl outside himself. Up, woozy
from his molded and deep, his grub
and handled surface is, to be sure,
a skip, the beginning of, a short trip.
His up-start falling. The housefly's
inconsistent was-ings. The gnat,
his scratching in a forest of floors.
These are his minutes. Examinations
down the detail, his etching. A plot
from here to the always at the end.
The eternal suggestion in the hole
of a period, in the note rolling down
the broken staff. He is now smiling
in silence, sick in his head of music.
A horrible faculty he's having now
to contend with. Hope. Enough with
his dreams already. These, too, seem
sinful. If you should, down this road,
meet him, maybe tomorrow, you won't.
He has no time for this, that, being, you.
A step outside, he misses feeling now.

He is thinking all of this and a bit
strange, he might add. A bouquet
of wilt in winter showers. Drizzle
the petals softly. What he is seeing
when we see him is a short answer
we will not be hearing, any, soon.
He's not feeling himself these days.
He would rather his body be flayed,
feel him out, a little lot, under sky.
He would just as soon describe
the hurt as, exactly, and move. He
is moving outside, having now to
find a fit, close. It is cold. And bright.
He sees too much light, clearly away
of letting everything be. Lie down.
The hole has a dirty way of hiding.
It must, to keep him, feel badly.
What it is he can see and still be,
a big spill, fills a small container.
To pressure, some maximum, blow.
About this, his business, slowly go.
After all, everything said, undone
he did not ask   to be told.

And we are, where? We know where
he is hiding. To make up his mind,
he's had enough of his body. To clear
trees and brush from the beautiful
green, he's cleaned up the place, so
to speak. Nothing to wrong by this.
Not him, them, anyone was too much
concerned. He will simply be gone
for a time. Test the foot in front of
you, he might warn. Where we are
then is near. Feel 'er up, the walls
of low-down, his dirt home hum.
He knows we are, is zero-ing in
or, he doesn't and he isn't, dumb.
That this is the way things appear
down here comes as no surprise.
Things grow up, out of the ground
or, they don't and they stay, down.
Nevertheless, that which he put in
is quite prepared to come back out.
Patience, you must learn to be very
patient, you must learn to be quiet.
He can hear up a head underfoot.