I still say no because this is a late period of transition
in which my body is a really big deal:
you can do memory, you can do sinking
or at fifty-one degrees north zero degrees west
you can throw yourself straight in at the deep;
so heavily he loses (it always switches on and off
when you least expect) so what are we talking:
my aeolian source, half-price epilation
in aura, esprit de l'escalier,
a man crouched in an empty field beside a sterling sign
giant torn shreds by the wind
that submarine manned by aliens made of white ash
the wretched liver bouquet,
in cellophaneland, in frownland