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What I was saying to peeping Tom of Coventry, But it comes out. The glint of "something, somewhere" has quit itself, and here it is in its approach, inverted doppler, sloughing off its eye-room. It's close now so you can turn your back to it, forget the others, look down and squeeze the garb and the tics and the knobs. See here, you won't be cozy anymore. Fondle your teeth. It is close now.
 Now consider with terror the shape of your navel, or how you might take to the clothes you'd assemble, if in a light-box, or stapled along gravity's mediation of an arc, if you were as runny as a curtain, or the tenor of a virtual throat. Set in such relief, how you could be that naked woman, or the king gaming everything for her, her romp down the street. It's all the same, digital. It might be tragic, it is so close you can identify, in any case
you take the lower road and here you are, Tom, squinting out from the waterhole, you and your belly, sweaty gums, your loose watch and recurrent fits. Trying but you can't walk at first. The fits recur. Can't quite come to it but it is your whole time hanging there, getting their fill and you can't see their heads. Your whole time, no? City's all cottonmouthed, so free now you lift your finger and get on with the facts.
Legs splinted over the mane, her hair, the whole show, how you were jealous of his being-there, we all saw you. No need to explain since it was you caught with your pants down, Tom. Peeled breeches, street in half, heads bob up and the lights. You were there pantomiming, meaning After All the To-do What's Left of the Human Comedy? What was I saying, no one
told you, boy, Here Is No Semaphore, that despite the flailing of your arms your knees will rattle, your patellae will split open like caps. And your leg brace will sediment like rebar, as if in the concrete of a building in a tremor in deep July and so it flakes and undoes its own scaffolding, what I
was saying to peeping Tom of Coventry, You're full of nonsense Tom yet you walk through some accident. Step forward but we're not sure quite which one you are, the sun gets us or why. It's here now, the horse, up front we can feel its spit. We say, face all of them and wag your thumb, we've seen it before, clang out, and when you fiddle your teeth into acrostics we'll close our eyes, we sure can't do anything.
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