Outfit your mirrors for departure
        though the rope-foliage looks nervous,
        hung from the harpstring hooks.

        Roll pause while the drugs pestle the place
        Sceptersweat, you are the grid, the
        grill on which I barbeque my b-b-gun.

        All nudes and rafters, upcusionings try
        to census-suck my neck's chaff.
        Then those flour envies the thrift of thorns?

        But see--see what sacrifice suite site got
        lawnmown out of me: watch it curate
        the only shelf not marked Self, that

        flowerpot filled with fruitjuice.
        The revolt that exaggerates its populace.

Copyright © Bill Knott, 2002 All Rights Reserved.