What We Find In a Language We Don't Know

We sleep with eyes in cavernous houses falling up
Of course we see centipedes traveling distractedly
We the disconsolate Brahmins and off it all pales
We the cantering centurions of the drowned many

Pump houses burn our mood in a high key and later
Hades is a steam without eyes but almost real
Are the many heaving others yet not with wings?

These many taken in a temple where we find prayer

Sputtering supine like this poem in the smallest

Puddle of grace where when when so many whens
We eat well from pumping hearts of neighborhoods
Floating inviolate and alien our naked faces in fog

Grinning ghoulishly away the four-edged frame
Such happy smoke encompassing cities other cities
Fireflies together stray toward our furiously quiet glow