Sing the song of centuriesSing the song of ninety-degree summersThe song of syphilisThe song of electrical storms inside usSing the song of seagullsSing the song of doors slammedThe song of bosoms in our shirtsThe song of drunken parrotsSing the song of cauldrons bubblingThe song of our daughters filing pastThe song of school kids revving their enginesSing the low song of wolves sharpening their teethSing the song of the livingSing the song of mail in their handsOf marbles, keys, envelopes sliced openThe song of shoes shuffling pastSing the song of sneezing and coughing and changing directionSing the song of Theseus’ madness, midsummerThe song of hard-working, of happenstance of some tinker’s reliquaryThe song of tsunamisSing the song of pigeons scoring the windSing the song of obstacles, of evergreensThe song of our liturgy, the song of the answering machineThe song of the alcove, the lean-to the chlorophyll bright in the treesSing the song of Apollo, of AgamemnonThe song of Cassandra, the loneliest woman in the worldThe song of the swan gliding in swamp waterThe song of the clavicle, the cave dwellerSing the song of our small breastedness, our bordellosSing the song of our nightgowns, our decrepit teethThe song of our hips, our split feetThe song of our thirty-three sails in thirty-three un- sailable watersSing the song of Cecil nailing the shingles to the roofSing the song of mist hovering in the button trees of Caesarean sunsetThe song of hydro bills, of snowstormsThe song of bottles, of algae, of billy goatsSing the song of Mars, of Mercury, of the AmericasThe song of our finger bones tapping the locksThe song of the pale bow of the moon, the sunSlipping into our song: Dear Landlord,