(once, on the pin of a night, past the hours of my sleeved thinking, my hung curtains pulled out of me a belly of pitches, and a wringing arm birthed itself from the curtain lips. it's arm reached out, training the cotton along the magnet floor to point out the earth's pine-forest and tend towards my tounge, as fingers, long painted nails with iron shells tweezed at my toungue: and then i fell. except, leaving those blood-scented rods, my head falling to bed, steel bursts into the air. in melts the walls, with screeching gears and shining lead, and edging blades on rusting scrap: all the razors which it shed shot like iron starlight through my dying ear; the up-spin beast, pulling my world up with it sent forging down its lightning field to thread up the blood in my ear, my curtains beating with its wings, to the engine of its song. in my dreams, i might have thought that the tissues of my toungue could deflect the shells of nails lining the ridge of its hand. but, cut by that industrial noise, a thought shot through my head: that its own gears had turned themselves and the angel away from me: that even as i lay i was a threat to this machine so it scraped itself together and built itself the sun and all the floor it came to shun.)