Around this 4pm flesh
                         full as it is
of hours
             a snowy static
That you cannot get inside
             the not-white, not-green
butter lettuce temperament
             such seated doing
                         has left me
makes an I
             of the silk & crunch
The mild lake
The floating parts
             You cannot stick your face in
                          though I’d invite you
to my flat surface, body rubbed as it is
under waters of doing
             waters of wait & repose
O, thought
O, words
             floating through me like hair in soup
                          mudclump in river
What sticks
             through the eating, speaking mouth
The roses with the look of flowers looked at
             Through every scrim
                          it is Excess! Excess!
My seated 4pm
             suctioned or sublimated as I am
                          into my little words & tasks
What breaks apart
in the quick brown,
                          the lazy spotted
             in the dog fox, what jumps
                                       & what
coheres?