From the Fishouse

Asleep by the obsolete atlas,
now you can imagine in what hour you are tempted, how far pleases
you best has shifted. Spiral-scalped apples, a barbed
wire of cloud, a gate
uplocked at dawn. What things can you take
for welcome? A shade. A bell rushed close to the eyes
is a portraiture of noise, is a window paying gaze is between you
blood. You scarcely know what takes you in. The air
is charged with versions.