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He, seeking his hello,
Hears the brooding of gold coupons,
His bed against the window.
He begins his first census:
‘When I refused to describe heaven’
‘I was sitting on a giant’s nose.’
He hears the coupons unlace sails,
Cement negatives of their faces,
A little apple in a broken vat.
Four orange flags over an oval in the street.
‘In winter stomp puddles,’
‘Go out and slip.’
‘Invent a new crime,’
‘Outline power.’
A bright pink tongue
And soaping down the street
Mimic formally
His experience of sugar —
‘Here is then what that art will be:’
‘Pictures of exception,’
Deceptive continuity.’
An anchor on a mountain of tires.
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