Depending on a thread of smoke

The morning was schooled in logic
              expecting money in the mail
& bleeding all over your prescription
                              printed in invisible ink

I tried translating the inscription but
              my latin is rust & my eyes are blue
& if you read The Cantos backwards
                              they sound more like a harmonica
              than a chainsaw does

Dark sunglasses, blue toenail polish, & a
              string of iron pearls wait for you where
the white sky bends into a turquoise fadeaway
                              an inch or two above the palisades
              which just like you is swept by an epic indifference

& she reads the sutras in braille
              her lips pressed against each syllable as she
counts every bloodred nail in the sunset