Not right, or the middle,
But straight from the top left,
Eyes they won’t stop moving now,
These eyes they won’t stop moving now,
They pull together—weaving sounds.
If eyes can hear our scratched out signs,
Sound-image won’t you come in clear?
Sound-image, do we see or hear
These symbols; once in mouths, in ears?

I move my mouth when I see the symbol.
An anchor holds me to the ground.

But please,
These needs of anchors
Weight down eyelids,
Screening, sifting,
Shifting slightly.

I skim around, and get down.
I see, I say, “I hear the sound.”
And all we come across we cut across,
By mumbling gathered groups of nouns.
The bomb bay drops these Pompeii rocks,
Some frozen timing and it is locked into the upper crust,
Down through the atmosphere.

The ground shakes as I gain three faces.
My ankles shape shift into wings.

But move this structure,
Wings of ankles,
Have more faces,
Men in costumes,
Hate these faces.
We can never save their places.
We cannot collect all traces.
Birds of ankles,
Words of ankles,
Wings of ankles,
Words of wisdom.

The echo’s loud, and stirs around.
It goes straight from the eyes to mouths.
It sounds involved,
It’s unresolved, and
Its magic makes a mockery,
Of me, my mumbling mystery.
But make me many, mesmerize,
By multiplying meanings, mark
My words, mocking ankle birds.

The wings flap in a swirl of syndromes.
Identity will pin them down.

But please,
These needs of anchors,
Shutdown ankles,
Screening, sifting,
Shifting slightly.