Three Poems
Andrew Demcak

To Sir, With Love
(for Frank Bidart)

The egg has fallen out of its nest.

My beak is red lips.

I use my white leg and white claw;
there is no other way to write it down.

If you are the crocodile
who is hollow and confident,
whose head I sit upon,
then you must recognize me
in this document.

Do you fear that I might molt letters to critique?

I sing sweetly:
open up wide, I only want to please.

after Paul Eluard


His lone index finger,
he remembered,
pointing into a real distance.

He went ahead with the "Luck" story,
swaying in the sunlight like a dark carnival.

He muttered with an unclaimed voice.

It was so cold that you'd freeze your teeth laughing.

A bright noise,
the milkman's bottled bells
distracting his pieced history.

On the mantel,
a porcelain dog grinned.

Homage to R. Mutt's Urinal

Marcel Duchamp mounted an argument.

The bicycle wheel's straight spokes,
face to face,
like lovers cologned,
mild and fresh
as past-tense sentences.

Celestial jokes
brought down galls of timidity,

An object was of his calculation.

Re-arranged tallow of someone's life,
loose in the sperm gallery.

L. H. O. O. Q.:
the bottle-rack got goosed.