You casual letter m. You bit of news,
    We want to have our fingers smudged with you,
    To flip and press them into that white page,
    That high-borne cloud. We finger-paint, contain
    The soul of flight in split parabolas,

    Here is a peddler on my kitchen floor,
    A madman with a broken back. He'll barter
    Bits of detritus, my own black spoor
    My crumbs and soily nickels. Greedy martyr,
    Miser, opportunist. At a touch
    He flies away like leaves, takes up his pack,

    This is how it goes: the lamb is bled,
    And fed to stones, and mother, on a rope
    Of clothesline, like a good absorbent pad,
    Is tugged to messes, left in them to soak,