Here's a plain pile of sand.
              Watch it tall
              and mount itself.

A window gives birth
              to a thousand windows.
              Makes a tin and eggy sound.

Scent. Sunlight snakes
              along an elevator shaft.
              Weightless with yellow heft.

Add white and cook
              on a fire-resistant spoon
              until ceilings fry fluorescent.

Make a picnic with pinkish
              ham. Or we are the picnic—
              your kittenish cheek and laugh.

Demure buildings desire
              control. A study of winged backs
              and collarbones. Immured

by patterns, the dance called flow.
              Scaffold when the sky falls.
              And it does. Your chin

lightly fuzzed like a doe's.
              In the forest of my unmaking
              the cubicles are full

of holes. What shaky walls.
              Aren't we all? Bones
              no longer ballast.

Each of us a trembling mirror
              of I of you of him of her
              skinned in glass.