something to the left of me about to
end the world in H-minor
by my right foot's halo a beetle that
should have died before winter
in my left nostril a prophet talking of
a blooming red desert
lifting my arm to draw a circle of air
for the last bird looping
in my right ear I make a bed for
nomadic penguins and planets
from my navel I extract a galaxy of
rubber stars in May
signing the sky on it's far side like
YK now he's doing reds
IKB and a faulty fall into the tank
with sleeping fish and weed
between the chairs a caravan of souls
heading for Dwarka to rest
folding shadows into cranes a hundred
times or more like time beasts
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