Thou hast done it now, so thinketh I of thee.
Thou mak'st a bow and vow, in front of me,
to aim a chuckle, like a gun, in my direction.
You love fomenting insurrection –
caressing floating bits of ambient geometry
to animate new stratagems of that psychometry
in which you are adept: feel up psyches from inside
to see what you can get to fit to you so you can ride
with it into that inner pyrotechnical expanse
that wants you – waits to swallow your first glance
at it: that sentient and voracious atmosphere:
think famished Santas jonesing to eat deer –
all their deer! – tonight! And then a tasty stew
whose basis, they are praying, might at last be you.
‘That’s it? A crock.’ Oh no: the shock, my dear!
If you heard another word, you’d disappear.