My delight, a tender bulb, not so different
from a nothing tree. Nothing grows here. 
Ash seeds in the cinder plot. Fury knows 
this trying. Fury knows how I am lemony 
in the mouth. I am an army. Full of oily 
girls in procession swing. A sometimes 
engine or swallowing. We. In gusto motion towards an up and up. We. Gossamer net. 
We—amber light breaking. To be counted. Wholly without holes. Be spry. Be bright. 
Be better. Everyone with words spewing
                                     a world of nothing.