The moon isn’t looking for solutions.
She’s grown accustomed
to partialities,

… And our number in the hotel—thirteen
   (yearning having been equally distributed).

Thawing weather,
   There’s butchered meat on the bottom —

We uneanhed the masonry walls,
   doors and gates, burrow-like openings,

. . . Still sitting under that dress on the line,
                         in the attic, feeling the light

Darkness washes over you . . .
      Only the sofas are safe under the lamps’ umbrellas . . .

One Centaur holds up the newly flayed
skin of a lion while trampling a man
whose whole face is sheared away

They grin at solemn heads with laurel wreaths
calcified to mottled rock, lopsided, bent—
and wish to fold themselves like thin gold leaf

It’s not only all those cosmic
pinwheels with their charging solar
luminosities, the way they spin around

It was important on this April night
to open the windows, all of them, east
and on the west, pushing the panes