Imagine a dying glance thrown at your luggage

Before you fly to the front lines of the battlefield. The halters

On women and horses wind by, and you think you can tape

Their beauty onto the wall, indifferent of the jarring horsemen.

Have you thoroughly seen the blood red tomatoes

Excited by the assault of wine makers’ purple feet?

The Jew in the oil painting is on fire, enjoying the personality

Of a mountain: a sabre-tooth tiger pointing at royal staircases.

Tell the singer! But the soft warfare

Of some charitable ass other than the dead one

Flew its heart into powdery tambourines

Before the supplies of fishing gear fell into his reach.

And her heart’s one desire, ravaged by flames,

Poured over with small coins: a reservoir of sea-birds.