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the anachronism of it
will bleat astounding here
under a brand new sun
when the paint dries
every eye will have
rolled to that hollow
tree trunk where the
swallows
and th'analyses
have been living
and meting out small sounds,
mutations as molasses
whatever you're preparing,
hold me and tell me that it's
a steam shovel,
a plough, or a va vaudeville dancer
because there'ous the things, baby, that
must needs be
relegated to the outer boundaries.
if you ask me, i'm making a tarp
to leave on the breeding ground
to let the state of things rrrrest
if you note a picturesque
and billowy topography,
draw up a license and develop!
hey mexico city!
a table cloth whipped
under chattering forks.
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