Fire took hold, fire seized, fire shook livid compote.
Upholstery put on feeble smiles,
turning to show everything which is just its point:
When I saw everything I saw one point
evacuating.
Springs gyrate, while in gymnastic clusters gas-jets
dance across the loaded open. Suffice it the rig
workers worrying out a tongue
saw fire dance above its lolling proclamations
unhinged
break not prevail, but slinks between a fair bunch,
flagrant line of the strobe rose ticks.
Suffice it silversmiths I thought of stirred pots of
attar must unfold exactly as they do
calibrate
fire upon their benches, ramekins scent floods over:
Such was a mayhap convoy, such was hope,
fire broke out, a paper fire, scrunched and mashed
ash wings that flutter from the grate
to make a point
together like a will, like a deposition sent to future
execution were it sanded well, sand
to soak the blots I think was chuted downholstery,
I sunk into the downy pillows even worse
acoustically,
if what is found suppressed for sure shortly spread,
what flared would be unreadable,
maybe too stable element, lean passionless script
tick-tocked across the brushed and blotless desert,
blue shadow
ramping up the kerb at which a taxi long-awaited
pulls in never, fiery asphalt a face
rests on reinforces: sunset smelting out of snippets
new birds, closer now, as if unsparked
bales of fire
stoked below the waterline, yet from neglect itself
turning up when no longer sought,
in a fire-trap, an iron sheath, in a condemned pile,
no part of speech is permitted,
that is the point
insignia these burnt-off gas sheaths cannot reveal,
but involute to snag what light’s going.
I lamped out of there would you believe I trailed
nice, intelligent watercolours as though blots
stress the point
shimmer stuff impossible to get a fix on, grasses
grew beneath my feet, the fetish
trailed its feathers and wore its emeralds, speaking
words in order till one point slowly opened
sunrise sphincter.