the mean touchiness of creation
hovers unapproachably
like a permanent wink.
Toto, I don't think we're
in
Kansas.
The orange glow of an eraced creature
murdered in comfort by mama's ax
flies into the organ.
The voice of the leaf on the neck
poisons the dowry
in
the yellow kitchen.
Soft Oothoons, afterall, dropped
the woodlouse overboard
with a sailor's smile.
And eleven elves drop dead
in the basin of gold trousers.
Prayers lay like pale beards
on the street. Nearing an island,
I forget to wave.
It
is
too beautiful
to excite me with the idea
of accessibility.
