Hardly a feature in the evening sky
As yet—near the horizon the cold glow
Of rose and mauve which, as you look on high,
Deepens to Giotto's dream of indigo.
They have their stratagems too, though they can't move.
They know their parts.
Like invalids long reconciled
How can she do this now that it's all changed,
Present her lips to kiss
As though that known face were the same as this
From which you've been estranged?
Furnished across a table,
The long provisions of midafternoon:
The cups, according as each tongue is able
To stand the heat, more or less full, and strewn
Tic in my jaw has slackened.
I'm high on feverfew.
I'd sleep, but in my dreams I'm black and blue.
The jungle, from the floor to the canopy,
Clogs and entwines
Its every rung and level with rank growth.
The python dines
A breeze fills up the manna gum’s huge lung,
That hologram of bronchioles. It sways there
Tethered and shifting like a hot-air balloon
Preparing for some fresh and doomed attempt
Above the yawing water's swing and swell,
The smack and buffet of unfastened weather,
A kestrel hovers, each updraughted feather
Hung from the airy ceiling's aquarelle
Seven o'clock, the time set in his mind
Like herbs displayed in aspic, as the chimes
Were striking. Then the squeaking of his shoes'
Near right, the dwarf Nicolasito
Prods to arouse with his black shoe's
Diminutive and cheeky veto
The mastiff which would sooner snooze