This is tread ice, this line, see
a trifle of waited birds steely wheel
themselves toward the door.
Oh another time!
My biding tick slow unbinds and
knocks at many windows.
My vying has uses. Talons?
Feinting faint anon, let me in,
let me disgust you, que je dorme!

The eyes are disturbing, the veil
is human, but the speak is an insect
swarm coughed at milk moon.

This is thin, tread ice, better
harshly chopped in response by
sealed passes pages, than heated
by a warm pity galoshed through
the atoms of a name,
setting it aside, diverging,
chaperoned into nothing like
the product of chewed nails, fallen
hairs, picked-at noses,
and my name, itself, toward the door.