They caught them.
They were sitting at a table in the kitchen.
It was early.
They had on bathrobes.
Like seven birds sleeping on the plateau
Overlooking the shipwreck of love, mystery
Of the drunken visitors wandering off
With your wife, men who talk with a bad accent,
The white clothes on the line put the man to sleep.
He was sitting on a soda case
Leaning back on the porch.
Is like a lyric poem
with seven basic themes
first the cottonpicker
When the rain hits the snake in the head,
he closes his eyes and wishes he were
asleep in a tire on the side of the road,
It was Sunday, before dinner.
My uncles were listening to the opera.
O.Z. and I carried my brother in
And laid him on the table.
I Or Your Woman
The night was a bad one.
I only saw one other person out:
A big black man on muleback
What if the moon was essence of quinine
And high heels were a time of day
When certain birds bled
The chauffeur is telling the cook
My father and I lie down together.
He is dead.
We look up at the stars, the steady sound
Soon I will make my appearance
But first I must take off my rings
And swords and lay them out all