Maintenance is a species of bird attached to the sky. Valved beak piston-injecting the self-defrosting sun. It is entitled Flight From Our Possible Neglect. What we call flight, however, is a science-fictitious hovercraft centimeters above desert. And we neglect even that. We declare a certain ambivalence to the sky. We go fishing and catch something that could resemble the neckties knotted around our throats while we’re otherwise undressed to the waist. Actually, we have no garments, we have no tokens to plunk in the horsy metagaga, nor is the love we feel for our zippers hip-hopnotized by the open parenthesis pattern of scales, by the dumbwaiter sun fly-fishing, vlap vlap, on the upside-down dish of Lake Whatever.