Friend means action—could you? Hold out?
In the northern capital we were not expected to know
what millennium it was outside Pegasus Stall
in that inconceivable London.
My lips cling together at the top of my voice
like fingers in mittens. As appetizers, cold slices
of marinated mushrooms, then mushroom soup,
and finally the main course, boiled mushrooms
with mushroom fillings.
My party books are dished out as dessert in little
cardboard squares, lilac ice-cream, cloud milk,
wine on the palm, cloud bread and rye-bread book.
The bronze of a sermon through the laziness
of the angels is melted down to a flywheel
with hammers, screws and bolts on a red
marble coffin. I can’t get my hand
into my sleeve, what with the wooden spoon
in my buttonhole, the bluebird on my cheek,
the words across the sky displaying the day’s motto,
a lyrical digression giving orders to the Army
of the Arts from the Commissar of Enlightenment.