the galaxy is the key of the brook

underground (where we ate the snake)

I lost a finger in the garden
the parrot on the iceberg is eating charcoal chowder

above the gulf was a cloud
I was coiled for the radio of the sainted knuckle

in the cloned apple room there is a book of these poems
we are in the pages, too

when I am the galactic, I shall remain in the soil to tend the garden

there is a bear here

eating the popcorn of the normal world
we blame the furnace when there is no ice

we are in the streets
we are in the stew

in the luck of the world there is a new elm
(in the forest of the light)

in the stomach there are birds
and in the air we have a rain

the name of the world is the blinking noun