From Second Ave:

What spanking opossums of sneaks are caressing the routes!
and of the pulse-racked tremors attached to my viscousness
I can only enumerate the somber instances of wetness.

Is it a triumph? and are the lightnings of movedness
and abysmal elevation cantankerous filaments
of a largwer faint-heartedness like loving summer? You,
accpeting always the poisonous stink of the spine,
its golden efflorescence of nature which is distrustful,
how is one borne to this caprice of a lashing betrayal
whose jewel-like occasion has the clarity of blossoming trees?
is it not the deepest glitterings of love whe the head
is turned off, glancing over a starnger’s moonlike hatred
and finding an animal kingdom of jealousy in parachutes
descending upon the highway which you are not speeding down?
It is this silence which returns you to the open fields
of blandest red honey where the snake waits, his warm tongue.
Dice! into the lunp and crush of archness and token angels
you burn your secret preferments and ancient streaming,

as a gasp of laughter at desire, and disorder, and dying.