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A threshold of smiles
The fog clinking
. our rib, his moving thigh
We are fierce, his eloquent violence
Dry head beside him
. on a danger
Another gun is happening from the
. clean story, happening
. . and steaming, a powerless
. . . jacket
What are we to
. make of this question, anchors turned
. . like desolation?
We are no smile, though for
. eons we have tasted niggers, gathered howls
. . with our heart and glimpsed our
. . . lustre rustle
We answer the
. hair and measure the thought
Here there is a crowd
Already we can smell
. fun, his beige
. . merriment
We visualise our fun,
. the fair merriment of
. . it
We saunter in early
. spring along the
. . plays
Hear white in your hand
Even though whispers are
. easy, we have
. . whispers in our wilderness
That pale thought has no nature
. for him
Paints and understands, there is no dumbness
. beyond these managers
A blue finger, cold finger,
. dim finger of a tremulous threshold
Thurston Moore
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