If there are churchesThis is where a church might be,A theatre if there are theatres, orA store.
Wingbones shattered—feathersScattered over the continent—The four unbroken animal limbs beatingA shadow-wind to keep aloft:
This dice-white Princess desk phoneIs a ghost, wearing a small bellAbout its throat.
The corridor, a New Jersey of the West, its stucco newness.What king was it that built this highway?
It’s a routine we’ve worked outto pass the winter.I saw myself in two, in three,into a puzzle,
How I hate you tonight!I tick offthe bumps on your back,your hangnails, the acid
I watch the point of the twirling stickWhere you are sleeping, where you will come again.
Things of my world, thwart, solid, chockablock,That I was wont lightly to wield and dandle,Now, button-bungler, fool of lid, latch, lock,
sic on it, the cameras: witch-green greasepaint canopy—pan down: the thick bamboo latticetwine-bound—pan down: dirt with rags to gag up,
Nobody knows what anythingmeans anymore.Sea-turtles run inlandat birth.