So much is unknown, my life is almost beginning
there is no choice but to write your
face on green and gold panels
to finger the telephone cord next to the phone box
where a cat’s eye grows minute by minute
and the irreal tune of your spinning gelato
hearts decaled with balinese insects and their hard
shells, unbroken with these sieves of memory
which i trek as close as touch, as close as eyes
spinning like haunted olives growing
color in the contracted night, the burning
of these noir chapels, from my clay hand
in the dumbwaiter