That prophetic tribe of tree pruners

Made its way over here yesterday on their little way

To the Spanish second, where books fire their appetites

On the window sill, ready to be compared with animal feet.

Men throw sour leers at the moon’s feet

Along the road to Rome. They’ve blotted out

All recollection of our walk to the restaurant in the sky.

By the morning they had left, and my best china too.

How fond I’ve grown of yellow sea birds.

Watching them fly by I nearly drove off the road.

The constellation they’ve learned to love is green as a pasture.

Don’t make ice for the flowers of the desert,

Before this trip you’d forgotten all about liquids.

Empiricism is familiar again, but what holds the future?