I remember looking up at at the music itself, feeling an urgency in ideas. Menu:
We live in a debt growing country. Maximum restraint = knitting your own brow.

Then let me pull an invisible to the eye hair off your blouse.
Blouse and sex belong in a pile.
It’s a seeming nice place except for the plastic :
containers hanging along the branch bow: the cowslip
and top limbs maximized along blood on my chest ::

When stairwells mesh and go nowhere either side
between you and your affection, let’s hang in for a while.
Hang our names in roots.