And I go down the stairs again
with the screeching of my worn out
soul
P. G. tunes instruments
for his golden arm
alchemy in a metropolitan shell
The squeak of time was
thrown back into the cracks
where the plaster has the form of a twisting branch
and my veins are sturdy trunks,
scaly, for drops of green sap
nourishment rising
from the bowels of the earth,
...