Sleep-layered games of one on either side,
of gumcluck left so gumcluck right - too wide,
so wide on left and in a bit on right - too far,
so even that, odd there, and we are as freeways
may collossally recede, the plain as tiny as a grain
is pecked at in the bestiary, as the sea is wild and coarse.
In the mild recess rats tittle in the comer,
each with a helmet and a spear, one with a flute
for a man, and one fellating its tail, slipping past
the fangs. The globe in the frontal lobe squeals
and in robes I am adorned at the back,
babies in my nerves.  On the wracked call
a phantom could have been, could have wailed,
merely checking up. Out of the menagerie
with FM chords away we did drive and slyly,
weeping each in our mugs, but might have gone
any way from there, so parched by expense
and meant after to glow more ever winkingly,
as we were with dusk drawn upon, as our faces,
wet stars across the hills of North Dakota.

   Sam Brenton,