Then the sun dawdled,
a uvula in a yawning mouth.


Like Sisyphus with his boulder
the sun shoulders
the piano’s granite shadow
across the parquet meadow.


The flight of flies
trail slugs’ crystal
on the hollow mirrors.


The glitter of spines
is finger-painting pigment.
A Swallowtail opens and closes:
a book on the third dimension.


Inside peaches
pits spring open.
Pears poke through
holes torn in stockings.


At bedtime,
among seven Chinese brothers,
you choose the one
who swallows the ocean.


The sawdust table
is never completed.
The beach
is never vacuumed.


In your nightmare
the counted sheep wear pointed stars.
You hold them by the leg;
they frisk like mare’s tails,


Never to be refugees
in the kraals of constellations;
they have business elsewhere
above exile continents, alien seas.


The shadows flee
the chandelier’s regal squint.
They cavort in the anemone
that holds court in the hearth.


After dark, when
the moon beckons,
they creep like assassins.