There is an anemic embrace on the street. A kiss is thrown, meets another, drops to the sidewalk and goes for a tumble. You warn of tight clouds that wriggle like armyworms, A form of algebra suicide, I guess. I want to telephone the sailors, Curse their songs of gasoline as the light in the booth turns me hideous. I want to become hydraulic. Hit the newsstands, national exposure, Feel the world crawl into me through the fingers as the traffic outside locks, stops, and goes soft. I want to talk about milk, about the invisible bones of the face, About this brain that sits too close to the skin. While I hear you tell me we could be chainsaws under the stars. Under what stars?