Hollow models caught up
swaddled in sweet lathes of bright
transducing letters, light up
on the stockinged buildings—blocks

of crinkled paint. The SS stops
you on the corner, knocks suspicious
on your turquoise door. Your tweedy suit;
your trim mustache and case
duck out to work, answering questions;

building clocks for princes. Watch
the numbers lock, projective vectors
flock to the diagonal. An inquiry
you do not stop propels you to the end;

reveals your new, unerring mechanism.
Angels beckon and return to your
grey tower above Copenhagen.
All six faced seraphim merge:

for you one function, multiplicities
of states unknit. The flat, unknowing world
below becomes uneven, bristles
with projective Heavens.