champ de guerre

hawsers roiled in their nests

is a windy hose the rashes

in your pants BRICKS LURK

IN THE OUTHOUSE )rotting

noon( your duffle eye in

flamed is the sea turns

its back explains the horse

nuts dreaming in your arms

a dream of a horse is the

dream of a melting window the

window a deafening fog sw

allows your museum of

hosiery and mortar

ants;;;

flat hull;;;

shadows on skin;;;

))lost yr feet yr socks float off((( ( ( ( (

lunch in the archive of

Ivan Argüelles' “Nocturne”