Squatting at the edge of the eternal hopesprings, squinting into the
eternal hopesprings, springing into stars with starry eyes and
hopesprings fastened to the souls. Fleet of feet, playing hopescotch in
the briarpatch, with the girls out in the moirepatch, out in the
starpatch, along the starpath, moonfrost out on the balcony, every cold
star casts a tiny sharpened shadow. Flipping through my sins like tiny
cocktail cigarette cards, fanning out my sins, magicians' fingerfans of
fardel cards. Starry blackhole angers twinkle x-rays, angling down like
dive bombers. I'm roaming with droning angers, Japanese zeros flying
in my pearly flesh, centering bombsights — What to do? Anything?
Nothing! Do nothing. Do anything. Do any/no/thing. Safely
zerocentered. Pleasantly responsibilitiless. Pitiless and plantlike.
Angerless & agelessness. Moonfrost and manifest and sleeplessness.
    Shapes of alien, alien shapes, cross and creen and proon across the
eyes of minds, the ugleyes of minds catch blackened knockneed
ugliness across the uglined plains of lessandless. The plains of zero
bring to me such sights as sought in beauty seas, along the bourgeois
lightning seas, across the pecks of peaks of islands hopping 'cross the
plains of wrinkled teabrown, peagreen seas. Resolve like gnatlike
flights revolving in lava, flowing into one another like alien daughters
and mothers, bothering my sight with flights of divebombing gnats and
ants and mites and frights that trigger sneezes — Jesus!
    Zero! Begone, you windy gnats! I opened the screen door and let
them in, I didn't check their credentials, I entertained them in the
curtained afternoons and sang songs to them in the evenings and turned
down their beds which were all curiously my own bed with its
comforter and flannel pillowcases, cases of spirits faces axebroken
across the bedclothes and pillowcases, fan-like hair of beauteyed
goddesses who sidle up in dreams and sing funny songs and enchant
me with their golden energies.
    Now. Nowcenter. Herenowcenter. The windless candle burns
straight up and bright like a pointed star and casts a single shadow,
with which the hours can be read. The birds of dread fly out the screen
door screaming. A halo round the candlehead. A halo of hair round her
sleeping head, fanning dreams like those magicians' cards — every
card bears the insignia of an angel and the face of an angel and every
angel casts a tiny sharpened shadow in the rightest angle of all.
The right angel, waiting like the dealer's card to be turned over and
gaze up with golden lidded eyes, sweetly saying —"sleep" —
in silent silken whisperspeech.