This lyrical language is a magic car, 
a first meeting of the devouring air
I call monster.

With this car I give Frank my father
as a word full of letters nearing recovery.
When I first regurgitated on a beach 
I had been buried in beats, sound 
imbued with passing on.

My father stamped with a big grin: 
is this what is called a whitespace?

I need my brotherʼs desire. 
I design a space of dirt.