| 1 | |
| a stain of faded | |
| storm light in my hand — | |
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If I cried out, Who among the angelic orders would Slap my face, who would steal my Lunch money, knock me Down—sailboats moored In harbor, trees on the long Breakwater, orange shimmer Of late July evening—I can't stop Wanting the voice that will come— |
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| 2 | |
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Simon says, put your hands on your head, Simon says, put your finger on your nose, Simon says, you haven't done enough, Simon says you don't care enough, Simon says, you can't stop carind— Oh look at you—once again you're a machine made of words, once again you're a death, a failure, your responses always too big and dirty and you want them to get bigger and dirtier— |
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| 3 | |
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to give the storm a local habitation and a name, and small wind bring down rain—echo and window, self and all selves, each day tears the air to bits—and small wind bring down rain—were you—did that mirror, again, feed you—when the moon rises, black plums taste like whiskey, pieces of mirror sweep blue wind— |
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