In The Augmented Hour (Frozen#9)

Rain denies itself, arpeggios what has been fired through this nascent dimension, its crown your own darkness against the glass, now clinging to drink, the city's dada. Swirls of energy left behind in abandoned rooms, piles of drying, jaundiced eyeballs, all will become the sense of travelling over piano keys: the jewelled children are laughing at what you gave to me.

The streets are fur, silver chalices falling forward from the regal lap into a recognition of air, a series of orange fingers you enjoy reading to whatever makes the glacier appear to exist in time. It's inside melting windows, where the contours of your face stretch fleeing oceans, plumes strewn across experience, then the skin of midnight again.

And beating with illusions, helios merely a number for each tower that remembers what it said to the mud, utopias of swiftness, a new code that folds back an interior you once called the eternal leonine. Crumpled octaves aren't Havana, though, glass bellies the noun of days but theorized, not transfigured, fifths we could taste and touch. Crazy celestials smile inside themselves, our mists interacting with the basket of cobras like any passion and terrestrials its moistened periphery, crying what we and everyone else knows.