Do you hope for more
Than a better balance
Between fear and desire
It'll only be the straying
That finds the path direct
Neither in the woods nor in the field
No robes, like Caesar's, trimmed with purple
Rather an entire street trimmed with purple
And every door in it
Wrapped in a different sort of christmas paper

The September mushroom of midnight
Show the rhythms of vision
Can't move for tripping over them
Wipe your tapes
Wie your tapes with lightning