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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
Luck
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,
presence.
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.
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