Bird's-Eye View of the Tool and Die Co.

        For a long time I used to get up early.
	20-30 vision, hemorrhoids intact, he checks into the
	Enclosure of time familiarizing dreams
	For better or worse.  The edges rub off,
	The slant gets lost.  Whatever the villagers
	Are celebrating with less conviction is
	The less you.  Index of own organ-music playing,
	Machinations over the architecture (too
	Light to make much of a dent) against meditated
	Gang-wars, ice cream, loss, palm terrain.
	 
        Under and around the quick background,
	Surface is improvisation.  The force of
	Living hopelessly backward into a past of striped
	Conversations.  As long as none of them ends this side
	Of the mirrored desert in terrorist chorales.
	The finest car is as the simplest home off the coast
	Of all small cliffs too short to be haze.  You turn
	To speak to someone beside the dock and the lighthouse
	Shines like garnets.  It has become a stricture.