The words say they stick
to the window and the ground and the curb gets flattened
next to the line I’m walking away. I just plumb
outgrew the chair – got up from it and on and on. You see
the building’s number, to call & make the buy. What
childlike things we set out to watch the streets.
My homunculus not a dream-wary one, but really set about
with paint and brush, with making the wood seal up
to wear better in this weather. What I can’t say
is the brick along the back – to throw it, make your fist into a camper,
make it light, draw it along the sealing lines.
Make the hand stand still a while – let the birds drop
their songs and white paint along the cardoor, and don’t step hard
if you can help yourself – don’t step arched along the cracks.
Take the brick and fold it into a film set. We can carry whatever
we want in these bags. Let’s lift now our friends up from this chair
and dance them around before we stall and set it flat down.
A brushman crosses himself in church, the little dreams of dolls dead-eyed
in the antique shops – how they crushed up all the make up
and build a mirror for the world to start its staring into.