All winter in hands of igniters
grows a tiny flame a trembling breast
humid hearts beat sing night's condensation
the sun's glory is dying except those which are named
fragments in the sky's roof are abuzz some
comets of good days comets of autumn
this sixty-pronged glory is the chutney after dinner
naught: misery or house of corruption
money's glory dressed in a monkey's skin
lice caught up in the mane of the sun
cats there want not to make abodes and purr
lice, animals dressed up to the nines
promenade southwards of wisdom's fortress walls
the panic of deferential rainbows
in entering gushes through the stone town 10
but nowhere lapidation could relieve, sideline
the route which tolls under hard steps
the route frozen
