It means stand still. It means
stay just as sweet as you are
         and where you are and don’t do

The model prisoner
edges his way through
the narrow gap between

They’ll seem to pose for you,
though they’re always posed

On summer days at the swampy edge of the river
    He would bundle his shirt and shoes, his pantaloons
         And drawers on the dry bank

When given a place to wait, it fills that place
By taking the shape of what contains it.
Its upper surface poised and level.

But, my dear lord, now that it’s in your hand,
What are you going to do with it? The roots
Of a windblown seed had groped sideways

Aldous Huxley and Thomas Mann by the light
Gold after-light of a California sunset,
Strolled with their wives on a deserted beach

When our semi-conductor
Raised his baton, we sat there
Gaping at Marche Militaire,