At The Corner,
Go On... Put Your Hands On Your Waist,
And Make Haste,
GodSpeed And In A Boy-Dream
With One Toe Over The Curb,
Cross With The Bell-Curve,
Let The Shadow Of The City Smooth Your Way,
Blotted As A Meadow's Peak Roughened By Morning Clouds...
...
You Are A Butterfly In A WindStorm...
...
Separate Each Voice You Live In Colors Of Flickering Irises,
View Lightly In Each Step And Being,
Flow InTo The Following Of Night To Day,
Sculpted As You May Be To The Grand Wax Politic,
Toil For The Gold Of Maples,
Charm The Phone-Line Poles To Bare Loins For Aristotle,
Swallow Those Brittle Wafers Of Obligatory Subjugation
And Cling To Your Mother's Dress.
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