But look, we have a tree wrapped red and silver
like a Solo sweetdrink. But look, we have trees
lit green and silver like a 7-Up. Christ-
mas. Fizz of deranged birds. Old houses whisper.
I wish you would kiss me as much as you like
says Mille Fleurs, unhappy behind galvanize.
Returns the air: I wish you would kiss me much more.
Cassia fiddle-de-dees. Lost horses
harlequinade lost racetracks. A plane crashes
without sound, in the experimental past.
The tram line was busy. Schoolgirls dressed like milk
must not go out in the rain. Has it been raining?
Mindless carolling could be an ordinary mode.
Oxygenated like a chorister,
having slept in excelsis, walk on like mud
holding you in consciousness of trenches
of the buried, excavated, reburied
locals, once beheaded to be examples,
now under buildings that dominate photographs.
A bed is a lit space. A lit space is not
a bed. Men startle, running chunkily,
trees guardant beside. Let them eat your dust,
women of silver, running like hurtless light.