after Breton

The glove was lost under the twinkling of night, under the premise
of an open pocket and led me to the question of captivity with a brass

timepiece calculating the motion, it was in the midst of a blush.
In the desire for suspension, for speed, you beamed, led

mathematically to the pupil of evening, the gossamer cast
overlooking noon and of the formula of morning loose over the hands

while it was your vodka that was clear. All who had been driving
pulled over to touch weather in rare bodily grain