As of which your mitered mashugina
Teaks her insulations towards the boom hutch.
The swish of metal in the circular
Is like swinging on a set made of children
Or for them, either way, diaphanous
Like the skin which kept my fingers on
Where now the old lady keeps my thumb
Last and first (the nightmare digit)
In her jar by the prayer hole she
Had me dredge from a cloud of happy
Waivings and, shall we say, her torrid
Recess in which a shallow grave burns.