Rain falling past the curtain you can draw
your own conclusions, There is little evidence

of the bee’s contact with a blossom
but the blossom, which is nonetheless

and admittedly large and disabstracting
These children drawing numbers on the black-

board appear waving numbers at the night
As my heart, done up in humanist brick,

keeps going around, which to a record player
is music, Sunday, And longing striate and radial

And my own breath a railing, Or this woman
in dark gloves as though handless before

dark woods, Lunging pronounced lung-
ing, breathily, Dear phonographic tongue flat

on my neck, Don’t you want a little intrigue,
regret, Let me tell you pleasure gardens

as in cultivates like the men at the checker
factory calling out to the evening red black red