I am the man encephalic

propping my head, blown obtuse

on the Y of a branch, an augur stick

set astride a plain chair 

on sand ground fine from old skulls,  

and there the morphic echo,

bell from the town campanile, 

transparent ballerina,

hoopskirt of an old woman, 

of Belial incarnate, turning the wheel

that saps a string of albumen

from the sutures

of my embarrassment.


I am impossible to dress

and hard to love.