All pants soldiers now present recapitulate to the march

The prisoners the white cloth the high black boots

An open door or holy now sugary white the straits are overflowing

Onto the eyes and the hollow Now the silent or the showercaps

I never leave. My sorcery won’t quit I eat for days on a cargo ship

Or boys’ arms small feet toes. The captain is a loudmouth a singer hangs out his gauzy under-things on a line.

If you’ve come here from the underground of Georgia hauling pave stones

If the brown hours of the evening step aside slowly Your horse neighs

A ghost appears a spirit a hurricane attired in roses.

Ever all the brown men all the whispering lovers Your horse noses them.

It’s as if the ice cream shop never was. The few sources of information we had flee the city

And then an elephant. My skull. August honey

He’s here. Who’s sitting on my suitcase? I have a question

And doors open a small garden an open shall we say you make me jumpy passing in your white sweater?

It is the dry land how to open their shells who is crawling

Beneath the waists of adults towards the liquor cabinet? Stewardesses?

Mouths full of little bullets a palate open at the waist shyly her small belly

The door opens… the dessert tray is rolled in a hired tired violin player

Has his face in the pie. In Rome it seems a brute will push you into sweets

Into all the open. Now a harbor now all the plains.