At the end of two months’ holiday there came a night
When I lay awake and the seas’ distant fretless scansion
By imagination scourged rose to a fight

Here, where confusion flowered in the rains‚
The whip-mad captains steered for Teneriffe.
Their cargo was a cry. Knouts in the sheds

Two verticals lie down,
each to the other, a horizon,
each to the other,

1. Fat Man
(Shokado)

Clearly, the man eats too much.

Deception is necessary. Disguises, too.
When I wrap this cloak around me,
I change into a barefoot, pious fellow

How strange to be sitting in this room,
to be noticing the windows — clearer than air—
how they let in everything, the leaves,

Sitting and writing on the dining room table,
I want to tell you what it is to be alive,
the yellow oilcloth table takes the imprint

Give us this day. Exhale the little thank you words, they’re quick, slip out our pores, clean hair. A shower. Soap and aspirin. Thank you. Whoever “you” might be.

A queer mist stands from the sea today, 
A queer color like the primary blue 
Supposed but never limed in the environs 

The blonde carrying the tote bag full of bones
Is dressed in a chiffon blouse printed with

Persimmon-colored butterflies