I was at home under the shade of the gumbo-limbo tree Reading the story of what happened to the little elephant with unbridled Curiosity. Still, I ask too many questions, even now. I was imagining the common turtle on his Lucite island In the hollow of the claw-foot tub in our attic dying off with Little drama all that summer long, the water getting imperceptibly More shallow every day, while I was riding brindled horses
Left fifteenth floor an hour ago. Still snow, third of April Of the year, moss-agate still. Will try to will myself To sleep. Magical thoughts move intravenously in hospital, And there is also harm beyond my own imagination’s gift For clemency. Turned one hematite-dark square In the Unresponsive Blood Ward, one rose angle past Denial looking at his torso bare. North of Stockholm, in a dulled medieval painting Nearly primitive, a feudal lord is playing chess with bony Death (come, of course, to take our marrow’s lives). File Or rank, I would be the chalkstone rook.