Shit: helmet—inhabit and apart of you I am,
team-symbol stark beneath the loon's dawn call.
God makes janitors too rise up bedarked
but key-laden and jangling the blue bowels
of our Dome: her ducts are sick, and longer than we.
They're the Lethe a janitor must ream
then emerge intact from, as I (cannot
forget) did once a bridge into Seville.
Where not one guilted gypsy threw
batteries at my nude head computing,
as is its skill its gift, the pickle
of the minaret: pimp-ornate, hot up etcet
but designed inside so two could climb, like arm
in arm, and talk about their job awhile.