Mother burns on the other side of the bridge.
The silence water makes,
and waterfowl on their mark.
A stick, pared clean—no, a silver-topped
bamboo-with-dagger, class doubling as club,
the advantage of gravity lifted high
She dances only in her necklace,
scotch-lit surely. He touches his glasses.
You don't need a machine to do that.
A plastic bag will do. But he built it,
his tools cast about in the unit
while he got up his nerve to use it.
A name or idea settles on me
while this dove flies an eight
over the wainscoting, while wind
overcomes it, flap by flap,
All the ivy ever cannot
cover what you see
in peekaboo. The great fly-by-
nights, Satan and his fold,
Who goes there? Hamlet
in hirsute, nude as a pickle,
dragging the skull as toy.
Who loots the dew or enjoins
a shadow to guard a tree?
The bird in the pie can't pretend
to arms, its claws rock
A De Chirico head aslant on a coverlet,
body mostly flown, the dazed prayers dumb.