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Now the exhibit spurs shoppers who might otherwise walk away
The cracked paintbox of remade gate taken in before café spritzers and a citrus tart.
Certainly there is always rain on the way, in a world not as cruel
As theirs, an oasis culture with walls patterned like a cardback
Where the love goddess baked her bricks. In a sort of farewell
Procession the river went west, and too, its supply of cedar beams
Too far in afternoon, the firewood requirements for another populace beaming
In their matching blues. Somewhere a lion lifts its tail, their collars away,
Every modest, self-contained horizon bade her open the gates well
Until every stitch had been removed. To flatter the eye of a king, tarts
Gathered like broken idols in a clutter of intensity, and in the back
Superbly relaxed in 120-minute hours, the maid slept alone. Cruelly
She had begun to remove the horizons from her landscapes cruelly
Exposed to the winds, where a piece of sky dropped to earth beaming
Into the vacancies of our suburban views. Her fading date on the back
The number of feathers lost in the struggle and its hidden thorns merely a way
Of the photograph and folded blanket of a pool. Since the shouting tarts
Across neighboring rooftops can imagine for us an underworld just as well,
For others shed their wings. Disrobing beyond the seven gates dark as wells
Gifted as we are with many directions to blot the gaze of desertion, if to cruelly
Use the words of the lady under the earth. Aching to hurt her unnoticed, the tart is
Devitalized, for the bull would not mount. Proceeding from an aisle of booths, beaming
Devotees sprawled in the dirt awaiting the return of their earrings, going the way
Of foiled tangerines to be undone. With a new arm around her, she pulls back
Forming in the stranglehold, just as the sacred cows press fearful inventions back
Into precious earrings. To be whisked off into apartments of our own, knowing our wells
From the whiff of our urochrome, so she married. Now limiting our explorations, a way
Binds you to vanquish the pride of one's child. That the dead rise attending the cruel
Presence known only by its shadow, a pendant hanging between two breasts of a tart
Sets up the terrible thirst. Not so much faces as molten casks thrown from beaming
Battlements. Show us some beloved's pillow-- tall, fair, dried saliva halfway up, beaming
Goddess giving once for all. So we escape by rushing through where the gates back
Into windowless plaster. With centuries less light of the sun, a king is forsaken of his tarts.
For a time I remained stupefied before a loosely-fitted inscription issuing flames as well
As the result of his quarrels. The cattle tell us of the one door to an inheritance cruelly
Dictated, speaking silently to no one. After being satisfied with the victors wiping away
Dried saliva halfway up the neck, beaming at progress, a satisfied customer goes the way
Forsaken of tarts. Loosely-fitted inscriptions issue flames, yet the name drops into collective wells
Cruelly dried up before a golden stock arrived. We rush to escape back into the evening boulevards.
The only real eyes, though much obscured, were sweeping that sanguine and sepia
Reverse of memory. It may be gray outside, but today's reading translates into a spilled valise
Though a presence is lacking, it more often left behind a cabin of upset silks in our cramped dozing.
Giving little notice, until at last turning the corner a square window searches out a bouquet of hybrids,
The gesture stumbles somewhere behind, if to keep us on our backs, clutching our valises.
Near to the shore and not near enough to touch, an air of recollection and vulgarity everywhere,
Whose intriguing exception beats the wrack ashore. Withers the gourd vines in the elegiac, hybrid
Otherwise identical white. Photographed from a living cuttle contracted at the left. Expanded, right
In the diverse seconds, three hearts supply a funnel and face. Tuning most sounds out, everywhere
Defensive, camouflaging, courtship-related changes of color have been described, your weeping rage
At the critical instant, is apt to break. Brittle pen within the jelly mass supposes the object breaking up
Its silhouette. An ink may be discharged after the confession, but not understanding its features
The final cause, causes one to act beneath the level of a gaze. Black clouds of narcotic, slowing rage
Head over foot. Moving this side of the table, where satisfaction enters the mind, where volumes altered
But the constructions insistently made the cuttle (never mind the copperish taste), an object for breaking
The chalk reserve of history. In the hands of goldsmiths casting rings as blood and water move to the same purpose
Construction insistently made the cuttle, if to compensate for your own body weight, a broken object.
Bright Ganymede before dropping into the ocean. More often a reserved presence upsetting the dozing silks
Through this strand of tissue and mimicking what I have never changed as if there were no vestiges of your shell
Sepia, content as you travel past the cracked vase pieces where your real eyes, though obscure, leapt out of the sand.
The house began making decisions, displacing its lineage of concerned owners--
Just as the knowledge of them increases--no trace of vertebral column is found.
Clouds clear, and great groups of animals that existed in their tortuous veins
Begin shaping the room, in whatever adjacent flesh disposes with its polyps and piles.
Among the spare bathroom cosmetics: a flecked shaving brush, the sink's graying
Body hairs we seem to have drifted distances. Deposits of industry now lime the faucet,
So uncommon we may ignore them holding colonies above and below. Leaking faucet-
Water draws back its gills, and progress slows to a starfish crawl. Just who is the owner
Of that smile? More like a groove radiating from the hostess, whether in the grayscale
Memory imposes or the cyanotype I have chosen. A few became stemless, letters I found
Where a prehistoric sun scorched, sea level rose or subsided, now crashing into pilings.
A few survived in modern seas attaching themselves, arms branching in the same vein
Catching in the sheets. A mouth was star-shaped, slender arms were broken where veining
Litters the undertow with copies. Drifting into our niches, tortuous S-shaped path of the faucet
Draws off my reserves like moon snails and oyster drills push through that strange flesh piled
Into its many chambers. Many heart urchins plow along the bottom slowly irrespective of the owners,
Using their spines as stilts, as if to look at what was happening, the robe flares where I found
One smooth, cold thigh shattering her brittle, bleached shell wrapped in a duvet of jade. Gray,
Tentacled shadow shapes the room weighing its renovation, where one prefers to live, graying
Anyway tangled in red spills of algae, stars and sea mice in the wake of acid rain, rusted veins
Mollusks hasten to encoil; rivets and anchors sinking to the bottom at times, with the unfound
Swimmer. Hidden in our flesh is the entire organ of the house. Stretching between the bilge and faucet.
Still running above the water line, until the teeth cuts the prey to pieces, there burrows the owner
In a thin layer of sediment until the sand dollar sits down to eat. Some spread their mantles
To be edible, siphon and plates fitted end to end with apertures nearly as large. Shells founded
As the rock, yet the mouth contains a sharp tongue that is nothing against the starfish, graying
On the beach. Go back to the footprints filled with sand. And blinded, its simple eye. On one's own
The currents are too quiet to topple a creature, long hair whips against the eyes, where seismic veins
Climb up the detritus in slender spires, extends into the water, up from a deep smoking faucet.
Thin, crumpled shells are lustrous, miraculously smooth in the numbered sands. Abundant arms ply
One form of the darkness. A nautilus swims jerkily at least 15,000 feet such that fossils plied on
We shall read sentences of winged familiars uplands until the rightful fit of the plumbing is found.
As soon as the house awakened to realities, rugs lined the floors--the kitchen finished with faucets
She acquired mere appendages to an ancestral rage, just as they do in modern species, graying
In wholesale aquariums. The lawn needed mowing badly, but clinging to her shape, perhaps vain
About her clothes, a medusa with open palms insensible barbs puts out an eye. That is, her own.
One form of the darkness redoubled its ply and acquired more appendages--to keep her graying
Secret behind the letters I found (which some species have lost) clinging to their shape perhaps in vain,
She laughs, says you cannot crack the ring of calcite sticking the faucet, putting out the eye that is her own.
