somebody is flinching by the mobile florist,
getting lynched with fatigue           and
crumbed tobacco
           cascading everywhere
like a film about a sleepless childhood.

                 down an alley a few blocks away
      a barrister snorting coke knits his
harvard muscle-cardigan
                          with rusty spokes
                                                   and quivers.

everything quivers for the girl by the water,
blinking icicles      into her dead twins
                                   fluttering           face.

waves are making blankets out of us,
      and awnings build shelters
                  from the rain.

         book x          treats the leaflets like they
are alight and yearning,
             and is under      gender-surveillance
    making notes
  on the social dynamic of    light-globe jokes.