I can see the hooked noses of the owls 
And this is how it always begins. In 
The darkness, everything looking

This roller coaster was condemned 
in 1925. You remember that, how the shingly 
underpinnings creak as the cars go clacking 

After the rabbits and doves 
and the sawed-in-two lady, 
slowly unscrew your arms 

The fête confused me. Guests played the part of gods.
There was a woman with white skin who stood
with her pale green robe open all night throwing roses.

We decided to stop drinking and spend Sunday at the zoo. It was going nicely until she worked herself up over the observation that it was a horrible thing to cage the animals.

You laugh when I tell you, but it is truth.
Countless physicians have affirmed it, according
to their various specialties. The oral surgeon,

Theresa used to come over every day. I’d be standing by the kitchen window and hear her cowboy boots on the walk. Then she would stand outside the door—I knew—listening for a sound inside, scratching the door with a twig, or reaching up to the handle to pull on it, softly, so no one would hear. 

The bullet has almost entered the brain:
I can feel it sprint down the gunbarrel
rolling each bevel around like a hoop

The rest of the painting being dominated
By two short, disproportionate figures
With fool's gold haloes.

The three of you are inseparable
You dance the ring around the rosy doom