From captor to native and cradle to eve,

                        waking and waving ourselves, our sleeves

in the cosmic breeze that ships us

                        to shape. O! harness, O! dumb dorsal purpose—

bluesmocking Alice alone in her palace, which happens

                        to be a hole—to be is to drop & grab

the bottle off the shelf to have something

                        to peruse along the fall. O! All the world’s a stage

in dishevelment. We bust each increment

                        to the best of our implement, to be fit is to be

part of the service of render of temper

                        of hull of fin

O! Lark

           O! Manna      O! Roll