warm glow increases fractious display

i the telegraphic son of whom it is said : nothing

in sides the war-locked city spire

worked with water  lathed by puma clawed antelope wing

i am bounced between juxtaposed states

strange envelopes something hopes me to enter

off centre the squares line up against my stars

i perish in some menagerie gored by memphis horns

the wildnesses where i must interpret small hints

printed in elvish the passports of leaves

sometimes the great artist forgets a stray flourish

sometimes a spider may release a fly

sometimes the king can sing of these things

often the earth often the sky

but sometimes the lonely eye

then summon the women bearing the liquors

and bring on the girls all fruitful and kind

and send up a litre of yer finest nepenthe

perhaps i need to get right out of this mined