I am a misprint, Ink blot on love, I remain a maybe Longing for fact, No speck of lint, A hand in glove. Thunder; a baby Will only react When you etch Parallel clouds, Whistling on cue To a dead town. Dream a sketch Of silent crowds Becoming you, This boiling crown Chews thought Into flagellation. Holes in the walls To spy through, Seeking a sort Of bricked-up sun. A heaven of halls, All leaving you.