He knocks at his head
"Has anyone checked?"
This bus, these blues, and cardboard courts-man
There are sugarcane children that should be in bed
Spying through psychology - turning into thread

Houses of maple
built under the sun
revive, relive, and inevitably shed
four coats of fists and a bottle of gin
timetable's of sin, and a haughty mountain.

He thinks to himself
"Is this all there could be?
inside tectonic scenes of mainland dreams?
What summons the feline infantry?
and makes the stone creatures an industry?
This bus is filled with somnambulist felonies."

His head - shaved to the right
quarts of diamonds and infant dust
lies dormant in the celluloid graph
and ladders then fall from the sky
spines of fingers and gravitational rust
carry off the wounded, carry off the branches.
The Branches.