Hey, liquid, lacquered one,
There is nothing left to be.
There is no other eye to catch
And hold. The light flickers out.
There is nothing left to seem.
The dark in your eye
Is blackness in God’s eye,
Obliterating light.
I’d say knowing what
Is not what. That what is obscured
By the eye, even now blind.
Which which was this?
Which what? That what.
Cube the angles of your face,
If I could see the separating,
There would be no what.
Cynthia says something
Yellow now in the middle.
There is nothing left to see.
There are no wheat or corn
Tassels you can fly with now.
O blind, languorous one,
We near now, here know,
Only the purest white time.
