Translated into a Finger on the Lips

I break down all seven doors in the house
of what I believe I pose as a lake
grab the day by its eggs the bad angels
that any common sewer rat could snatch
a gas pump or garbage can nippled orange
windows are sawdust is goodbye now
bone-whipping hairs in the nostrils
up in a sitcom perceives meridian bared
the laughing saint in the limousine
go with Vietnam to the dialectical ball
pencils ashes blue glasses of water
and a wind blows me out of my branches
edges of tapedecks edges of adolescence
and what is in me bellies like a drunk
a monk a lover a rock a pocketful of sand
when that old pawn shop opens up
in midstroke where I resemble a handkerchief
stuffed deep into the bottom drawer