LITTLE CHAPTER
Hot and dusty and attached to you
as the lid is
to
its eye
the sleeping man is his own hand
grown weary
Why is the sky more lyrical than a desert?
With dimness and mezzotint
more passional than a rose
the octaves and generals of the sky
and the aphasia of these petals
Just now my nose was taking a tour
of the harbor
In a complex way this scene has no people in it
though the shape of an eventful foot
will soon evolve
It is the size nine shoe of my father
humming from Don Giovanni
and towards me in this portrait
you fall like snow
a fa<;on de parler
for the sexy pile
When each face kindled, flushes
with the maculate ingredients of silence
I know the theorems of these residues
balconies a long way from the sky
The whales becalmed by mists
on nights
the gods for whom we are a little finger.
