How scrubbed-up clean

are our spirits, these loquacious silver gods who glide at

some safe distance above their rank and proletarian bodies.

Foul though fascinating landscapes they are that they

traverse, besmirched with armpits and fruity genitalia

and belching gobs and those impulsive blurting sphincters

in whose hot updrafts they might ascend and soar.

O, but our spirits are so lustrous, so hairless, so advanced

in their glass-bottomed flying machines which run on

just about nothing! What quick and icy notions they have

that slot into one another like the tightest clocks, and how

they lick their lips as they gaze down in anticipatory glee,

for though they would not themselves wish to rough it,

they certainly will peep through their bedroom

windows, each a jiggling voyeur of its own ardent body

when that body has chanced upon another, and the pair

of them have knuckled down to their immersive work.