Shelf of islands, my books are antennae.
Let the movies turn your topsoil.
Insects and endorphins allow grief
and wings for every eye drawer, as
often I strip the preening lamp of strays
and fence the morning from its doves.
What beautiful ocean still hums and lies?
What calendar pours all our days?
Seize for me the viscous world and
juice again a summer's sun.
