1 I can be myself today, tall space ape in a garden where other space apes play. What a nice time this will be! and I can roll on the sides of my balled feet like a hairy barrel loaded, swinging arms that scratch the ground like leaves. I’m an ape today, headed for my pulpit of joy in sunshine by the window. Daughter laughs. That’s good. We can hear her mother dressing: conspicuous absent rustle, dry nylon and hair. Oh, lord of the spinal cord, what stone repose do I feel when high heels spike the spilled roast beef? I do not play no rock and roll. I am an ape today. 2 Spies can be themselves and pray, space shapes like wardens where other space shapes pray. What bright signs lists can be! and I can play goalie on gliding robo-feet like an aery feral gnosis, thinking of alms that match the sound of waves. I'm a shape that prays, shedding all culpable joys in an undying window. Laughter laughs. That’s new. We can fear its other lessons: continuous absent hustle, tight nylons and tears. Ode bored with final form, what bone composure do I feel when ideals strike the still moist leaf? I do not spray no phlox with oil. I am a shape today. 3 I can see the shelf OK, call space a grape in jargon since tender fresh grapes change. What a crime scene this will be! and I can roll on my bowling ball feet like a scary bear exploded, singing of charms that catch the sound of the sea. I’m a grape, OK, headed for my gulp of joy in an unshining window. Laughter gasps. What’s food? We can bear our brother fressing: despicable absent bustle, cry of lions and bears. Oh, lord of the penal code, what stoned exposure do I feel when the spine feels like chilled ice tea? Nor do I ever say no lox and bagels. I am a grape, OK? 4 The eye can be itself today, space tape in a garden where other space tapes play. What a fine slime this will be! An eye call roll on the side of its raw seeing like a tarrying arrow slowing, singing words that flinch like ounce and please. The eye is itself today, shedding all its Tupelo joy in gun-shine at the window. Daughter’s black in mood. She can fear the other mission: continuous ashen tussle of high pylons and air. Restored like the final chord, what tonal closure do I feel when spiked tea kills a thrilled ghost cleanly? The eye won’t pay the landscape’s toll. The eye is space today. 5 The shy can be themselves today—pace and gape in a dungeon where others gape and pace. What a fine shyness this will be! and shyness can stroll the length of its long street like a hairy chairman bloated, singing harms that smash the proud like fleas. The shy have faith today, headed for their populist joy in the blind sign of a window. Father laughs, “That’s good.” He can hear his mother’s lessons: ubiquitous passion, dust, fine dye jobs, and prayer. Torn like the final word, what prone disposal do I seek when high steel strikes a West Coast priest? The shy don’t play with no damned fool. The shy are afraid today.