In a forest on a pond is a boat. A mountainside city brims with erections, vegetation. Moonbeams color the oarsman stopped on its bottom. It is night, frigid. A brook flows through the forest. Amid straight-ceilinged constructions, amid timber, rises a spired building, a residence. At a point on the brook is a gorge. A captain lives in this residence. Foliage loads the gorge, molds it into the form of a booth, of a throne. Her living-room is ivory, expansive; galactic bodies spin outside its window. On the floor of the woods are stones, soil; it is a floor that looks to be throbbing. Inside this suite, a ditch. Solid, uniform counts; not short, not delirious. Iron cribs, girdling nautical equipment, encircle it. The oarsman abandons his oars his boat the pond for shore. Mid-ditch the captain reclines, stiffens into her furniture. On shore woods tower; oaks hold shocking proportions. She's visualizing portions of her sailors: padding wrists, tiny thighs, lips rimmed with saliva. The oarsman continues along throbbing ground; a violence is lodged in his throat--a lodged violence, or object. In her grip a tiller. He roves his tongue along the bones of his mouth, bows it into his airhole. It fingers tonic, it is weighted with direction. The movement provokes him, or conceivably is aroused by resonation.