Everyone in the world,
whatever their disposition,
seemed to be crying at once

Oh my god, it’s Paris by moonlight
Even the trees are drunk and walking
A single pink slipper floats down the Seine

I cannot change them,
I am told by you people
who apply the rule of leopards

Soon I will become an elephant.
My ears will grow and begin to droop.
They will turn grey and floppy.

Within oral slum,
Mr. Illusion-Thaw
wilts humor-nail.

All the pretty things you do
the way you lean outward
against the window of the train everyday

At the failing of summer
just when autumn is breaking
the pavement with its strong back,

“If we have a turtle we’ll name him Michael,
or Michelle if it’s a she,” she says.

She has other plans. “Be careful,” she says, “an egg
must be taken good care of when it comes to you
like this from maybe heaven.” I think it’s a duck.

Their sorrow is something like
buyer’s remorse. They chose