The city of Edinburgh
is composed mostly
of a horse’s ass.
Two gents by the horse:
one holds a portfolio
of lightly strummed serenades
and gouaches from general life.
He raises his fake arm and sings. The other:
“If wishes were dresses…”
The artist could not
bring himself to believe
in the fecundity
of Scottish fields,
white on white.
In the hatchmarks it is extremely cold.
Only the sky’s eyelid
pressed against the hills
believes it’s spring.