I.

dried sun and bone cracked dull
through bricked in windows with iron frames;
magenta, vermillion and late winter through shuttered blinds
like the August nine o'clock horizon, like the
waterfalls dropping
through into you.

II.
electronic crystallization and coughed up
Brazilian beans of which there are
four thousand in existence in your/some
Bluestone ornamentation of marblization;
singing cracked catharsis, crux and climax
to deadbeat and sparky sunshine babies with
lives on hard drives through Nova Scotia zu New Mexico—
damaged,
sic,
fin.

III.
truths of nobility, precarious and sketched
upon glinting pages of idolized Indian stone, you recite;
and blue checkerboards tell the score and I've got
twenty-two
minutes
to go.