After all, I could find no way to speak of myself

that was not crudely structural. Crazed, as is paving.

That is: fitting the overall format but constructed

from irregular parts. I dug deep. I found there was

no way to speak of myself that was not somehow

structural. And so I built castles in the sky,

or rather in the Alps—they being near enough.

Or rather I drew them, dreamed them. They are made

of glass, most stony of sky cladding. They are not made

of glass, most ethereal of rock. I have enclosed

a lake in lips, lapped it with crystal tongues. I have not.

I can find no way to speak of ‘the self ‘ that is not,

essentially, structural. I am building a roof above

the highest peak to keep the rain off—because it dulls my

geodesic heart. Four chambers, the flow and interplay

between parts that can find no way to speak of itself

not grossly structural. This wall, its bricks are made of air.

It's only arrangement. Or rather I imagine myself the man

who dreamt of high windows. It's a sort of sanatorium

with simple, pinewood rooms. It's a sort of shack or chalet

to think it. Damnedly structural. The mountains beyond

the balcony are, I know, and have no need to look at them.

They have no way to think of themselves, not permanently

structural. Here the air's better, or less of it. We see

more clearly. The eyes the smudgy windows of our souls.

I could find.I've schlepped the pretty parts of cathedrals,

of malls. Of lamps and underground stations. Purely

structural. No way. Each foot falls plumb to the ground.