Even with a glass eye/ I still judge simple rhythm./It’s played by maidens,/they echo past sparks/in the live eye. Both eyes seek to be/ a spoke in a wheel. We sure understand,/that we can’t travel/where our gas tank takes us./The looks on our faces,/they’re the puzzles we expect. In a summer of searing pain/I’m trapped when thinking/ of dim lagoons under crescents/ in a crossfire rain./ I consult the fire sign./It navigates but few stars. /I might win by laughing. In another night/it is a dire pastime. Like when you walked/on my future grave/ it sent a chill right though me.