Bending over like this to get my hands empty Rummaging through the white trashcans out back Of the Patent Office I find a kind of peace Here in this warm-lit alley where no one comes. Even the rats too they know that nothing new Is going to get pitched out now--no formula, Not one blueprint will ever be found in these Bright bins whose futures are huge, pristine. Old alleymouth grabbags my attention at times I see the world flash by out there, glow-glow as The floors of decontamination chambers- I go back to my dull, boring search, foraging For the feel it gives me of the thing which has Invented me: that void whose sole idea I was.