Write about the stars, you said,
The Tour de France, how music looks
If you can see the sound.
I draw short rays, points of dust,
A spiral then a snail
Atop a bug. And clouds.
I've settled now,
Into this sack of bones. Where I want
Is where I go.
I can no more prompt me
Than I can stop the sparks
In the eye of this winged pig caught in a net
Of my making.