So Much So

to speak you sit by the last
lit lamp in a damp house
and hear whistles, wind
whittling hills, insects
whipping themselves

in the blueprint of your blood
stream, where crepe paper
drapes drop over
synapses and ele
mental parentheses are

rocked, rocketed to
oblivion in a word
and the world made mad
flesh museum, with one deep
drag, like a candle goes snuff.