I'm riding this house
'til these years turn dusty,
'til my thoughts get thought-over
and my gait tumbles,
'til my words are taken into custody:
my voice lost in the wind

I'm lowering the heights of day,
un-nooning zenith,
evening out the evenings
on a daily basis,
holding dusk at bay, come what may

I lay myself astray, that or this a-way,
in a Lévi-Strauss la pensée sauvage mummification,
in a poem that is God's pregnancy test per préférence

Life's no fucking puzzle;
it's a rainstorm and a storm water well drownage