What gleaming mountains! No,
but I would never live upon
them no,
no I would never live upon.

Bad stars, and crumbled,
seeming reefs, the hand
immobile scar before
clacks up its arm

of weapon-gold
and sluiced, like
brightened leaves.

Unruly mountains, naked
reeds, rebottled anarchists
explode

on breasts of sky
like mottled clothes
and skeins of semen
fast enrobe the sheafs
of cloud, grey books unknown.

Such mountains, never could I hide
from bodies locked
to every flower, stone,
lead sheets, like magazines