A Sheaf of Pleasant Voices

There are rooftops made of cloud remnants gathered by a trader dabbling in car parts and burlap At night, I dive onto the breeze fermenting above the dirt and dream that I am a crocodile a tin of shoe polish, an audience of two In the morning, before the smallest yawn becomes a noodle, I am offered a ribbon of yellow smoke I opt for fuzzy rocks and clawed water and, of course, the perishable window I am one of the last computer chain errors to be illuminated I tell you there are rooftops on which the moon stops being a cold jewel And one by one the mountains begin their descent from the chambers of a lost book