Those birds will eat anything—
the carcass subsumed in death, the heart convulsing
in laughter. So this is how it ends, a dart in the eye
of Ifdom. The duck grows
up to be a pillow, the table takes the tree
out for a talk—We must stop meeting like this.
And that arrowed water on which the women row?
Oh, dangerous, yes. At any moment an arm can reach up
and show the wrong side of the dice. And then
where will they be? Children again
before boredom and invention awaiting some birthdom.
A tiny thumb stuck in the port.
That kind of desolation can double as solace, Louise said.
Yes, the skeleton dreaming its body back to a particular
limit—a lovely skin, a mind that knows nothing
of boundaries, the erotic singsong of motion.
The happy little cage.