The supermarket and when I walked in you knew me, approved

Over car horns or days and no socks arrive. These mailmen

And the vague tenderness they express after kissing your nuts

In the doorway—where’s the dog at a time like this a propeller plane going down in the arctic circle—

And isn’t there a train a cold train already arriving there languorously?

I bring your uncle a box. Where’s the mailman? His debtors roll up in a car asking for him.

All along the canals or did I ever think to ask you if maybe perchance you’d heard a duck sneezing

Over the rollercoaster before it fell apart on your shoes? It’s spooky

I’ve been looking for a girl like you to push my car into the bog with her lips

But you’re washing your hands of me before the organ and you kick down all the pedals.

Girl you’re full of all the good stuff, d’you know? Anyway, I just got a haircut

And Spring is crippled, but here in your eyes all my many, or the firemen, or their dogs

And who couldn’t desire a sheet of pancakes or falling off a mountain into

Any old musty palace? Isn’t it enough that I own a barge?

Why will you leave me for a botanist? A train leaves from your mouth and heads for the hills.

If I’m a bakery, what sort of car does my chef drive?

And the clock is breaking down, ducks eat crumbs and you’re behind a tree or in the dictionary of

Financial terms under “secrets and oh once there was a boatswain who’d already loved his mother and went hunting and shot a holy rabbit.”

In your eyes or only a few short miles from here your plane is landing in your quiet mouth.

Do you have any idea how many angels that one plane can seat?

Overly simplified by, okay, a good time then or by only and once I had a tiny chicken of my own

And it was round or didn’t I ever demand of you that you come back up out of the pit and wash your hands

And you were only radio static, or only half of a body and half of the body of a tree?

But as far as you’re concerned, I could never ask you to drive me only to walk me, like a priesthood home

And aren’t you full already of her, of her swimming or her sweetly singing lightly above the streetlamps?