I.
a fit of the carnal, hardly bleh, & not un-near
the canal, or all sides of the castle…
but ants, meantime, on the castle’s rugs
& rags & bags, oh, bags, bugs, rugs, ants,
ants… then the certainty, too, with which you
speak of your autonomy & profligacy, & near
neither the castle at the precise points where it’s
touched by the canal, nor the crystal
said to be inside of the canal but not
the castle, plus the couple you in turn
become inside of the landscape carnal with ants & rags
& bags, until the latter is being filled, now, & right
outside of the castle, with smaller bags of landscapes
demarking whereabouts in the canal lies the crystal
the couple soon enough bags with bags…
II.
yet no one, it must be clear, no one lives in the castle
but a couple, a couple of bugs
bags spool rag-like over whenever
the wind hits out at the rugs—
III.
yet the crystal inside of the canal was once
indeed inside of the castle, & the landscapes the now
crystal-bearing couple hoard say so verifiably, I swear,
I swear, though the crystal itself, displayed oh so
dryly, is in time overrun with ants, ants, canals of ants,
yes, those bugs the overall landscape never niches
merely in rugs, until memory’s opposite
proceeds to cull two distinct humans from
the condition of “couple,” & whereby—
& at the precise points where the canal touches
the castle—you come to again pontificate upon your
profligacy & autonomy in the vicinity of bags
once filled with bags of the same landscapes
now tossed in some ditch with the crystal…