45*21

all the ailments lowered lowered from the upper level
seeped in drains that pain
the poorest of all Italian garbage workers
powdered with every skin feeling
the inner depths of world war two
what's the fun of mopping the floor with you
when time is stopping at my threshold
I'm invaded by a peal
The raccoon in the window appears to claim me
my spirit animal washing its hands
of all that is known and unreal
which is transparent, a minute
in a stillness of argued time
A perfect box containing perfect items
is my mind in the most idle state
hammer feather sponge
grasping the last notion
Don't look at me I'm hideous
in a trained thought of a monkey
behold... I ravish
the end of these lines