The sea is calm and I quit seeing the singing dentist.

   Language deserts us.  Knowledge (literally: "bus")

is also calm.  And accurate.

   I am liberal during "coitus andromeda".

I am an assiduous necker, less than Eden but fess up, the chore is

   calm in her funny conceit.  A pie doesn't know

how tall you or I or the USA is.  Hi Molly, I'm spiraling quietly.

   Cynthia, I'm not certain I can put the nix on so many kisses.

I'm sober like many foreigners who used to say "banco!"

   and who rent Sarah at night.  Face it boys,

thank your egos not your dumb senses which everyone depends on.

   I impress Molly:  "A condor is just a dire bull."

And what music can only duplicate, my heart corrects.  While you and I

   are bent over love or a book you tell me that God's uterus

is the subject the thief posited.  To tempt is to lacerate

   the eyes and admonitions of "so sue me and arm my hands"

don't soothe your wounds.  The air is dominant, the turbulence quiets 'em.

   Expert matrons, I urge you satiate, 

but my sick intentions fix my eyes on a harem (bam!).

   Arguments and ignorance in a kitty corner of the bus.

And my only mode is our mode of front-wheel- drive Corollas.

   That pony is yours, Cynthia, temporarily. 

My mode lapses into gaudiness, for the mare's capillaries

   are not furtive because a pony is not a damn bus.

Largely, everyone is an ingrate but some grate more.

   Money is always prone to violent scenes

and quotients are rarely suspected of having motives.

   Obstinately you want the suspicious credit.

You don't want to be insolent and you aren't.  You are timid.

   Now which life are you in that you know to be yours?

Don't die you ersatz procurer of hats from the moon.

   The moon is dead but you are illuminated.

Compose it on a bus the radius of which can fake it on a cello.

   Molly, sit down and fix the torn cubicle. 

"We" refers to "you" in "tandem" in your lecture.

   If you alter the clauses will you be expelled and put on a bus?

Not that you belong.  Our consumation in the temporal night

   was languid and exact.  Do I ride on the side of the bus?

Oh you tease me at night with improbable tales from magazines.

   My misery always has you in it.

I fall (bam!) on my somnolent stamina.  The purpose

   is verses and I confess Orpheus sings lyrics.

Enter the dumb thief.  I come and a Gay bar is deserted.

   And outside is always the longest in the morass of love.

And dumb me:  "I can sop-up this lap, Sam, so pour impudent Alice

   a strawberry liqueur which ultimately will cure me."

To poem, Fourth

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