I recognize that wind, incident on the grass,
under his bed, just below tatarvu.
I recognize this sheet, in roadside dirt
falling, as a vesture dipped in Prince.
Spreading wide boom on slanting cheekbone
wooden house in a strange land,
that goose on the fly, Autumn in the glass bottom
recognizes the face tear.
AND, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling,
I was not a word about the room forgot to tell shelf,
but Kaisatsk the name of the language in the mouth
stir in the night, as a shortcut to the Horde.