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