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
