Later, I’ll stamp and address my layers
I am on a hospital bed, a cotton headstone,
pining for Rhiannon, listening to The Engine Room:
the soundtrack of the cutters and the sew-by-the-numbers.
The panel glow is artificial,
the kin of many glazed, neon-front venues
framing crow-pacing avenues,
the birds, their profiles, the serious dark of a Mohawk
redefining the cyber, drinking the pale cider.
I want to glow with them. That is why I am here.