Foundry of the dead, the dead invisible hammer
Forgotten that dropped to forge
The ring behind the doorknob: brass roses

We ought to hang cutout hawk shapes
in our windows. Birds hard driven
by a predator, or maddened by a mirrored rival

Chenille-skinned people are counting under the countryside
on resurrections by truck light off among the pines.

Many resemble Henry Sutton
in sleevelinks in Ballarat
who invented television;

The red serpent of cattle, that eclipsed the old dreaming serpents:
there it still is, faintly, winding out of far lilac ranges

One me is still in the yard, the place skinned of feed.
Me, old and sore-boned, little milk in that me now

But on the screen where your real life is happening
It is always 1938, you are always dancing

The film begins in Venice
As conceived by the dreamer before
He begins his journey, which ends

There are so many domains. And Julie doesn’t know it
yet, but she’s traveling through time at a ferocious rate. 

Judith, I’ve seen the CPA. She showed me two
indomitable columns, numbers rising like the legs
of a statue god.