Day,

like the butt-end of the broken off Protong

whose intricate and crumbling contour I may inspect

if I were an I, and not the illimitable 

reconfigureability of infinite unknown languages

contained in this frieze

of forked and yammering Styxilites.

Day is ominous,

and withdrawn into itself, as when

somehow in the domestic struggles

of traffic analysts one notices in the numbers

the face of Humbaba

attempting to republish itself

as an illustrated history

of Pachinko,

whose delicate cover of carved butter

depicts a child with a balloon in one hand

and his parent's hand in another

spitting a coin miraculously

into the slot of a coin operated box trap

whose bait may be the whole of life

as reduced into a poem

by a slithering alien thing

with a beard of nictitating diagrams.

Day is the child of grace

waning upon a smooth waxy copy

of a bloodcell

illuminated from within

by a white hot rod-iron birdcage

mimicking the skeleton

of a radiolarian,

and just now starting

to melt a whole

within its navel.

Day is all of a smile

and tendered by the sweetest coinage

into a test,

a babe with an elaborated iron helmet

it knows not how to hold up

above the rushing cataracts

but does

in its buzz, this babe is drunk

on whirring clover pistil breaths

which hunt among

the tar black angels

that lay flat in mirrored disks

to perform as stairs

over an ever more violent foam

whose only mistake

is hyspherical languetude.

Day is a shambles,

a lady knight asleep in the inch-worms

which conflate as a swarm

amid the bramble

which follows the lonely lane's amiable

stream as a thing foot bean

a corkscrew tongue

which passes through the pale

transparent blue glass sky pig

and causes it to ooch

towards the gingerbread guru

with tree horns

who only bakes houses

in a romanesque style

as the Day

is always

before the Gothic,

its orgigin

unconed.