At the cuticle of a Thought-fused Beat

Of language, arisen as at a Seam

Of skin and windowsill, mini glass sheet
Oh Finger Nails of elegant aim,

You are my contemplative Beautitudes,

Tenderly destroyed at the edge’s face
A Pop Star of Ten Dimunitions wound-
Up like a projective Verb and surface

While on and on run the Others, breathless

Adjourned without peace or procedural
Trust. And back to the trenches of endless
Dismay laid to wrestle in the bleedful

Connivances of a vacillation
Such to a drumloop, a situation.