There is a man in pajamas
standing on the ledge.

His manner went to Queen Elizabeth
decapitating Mary—Queen of Gaul.
Throckmorton had become a shibboleth.

 The eyes of your eyes not yet
open. Tongue. Bud lip. I come
to watch the heart

A different tongue, you think,
would set you free. Imagine songs
you, disabused of old entanglements,
might sing. But only out of mastery;

As capable a troupe of super-
stars as we could hope for.
But which one, having dressed

My father? He was into shoes.
But also into pins and needles,
pots and pans: a five-and-ten,

I hoist the cat up in the basket of
a forty-foot-long picking pole and give

it a wild ride whipping the pole around

There where occasion has been, a steady snow—
or is it boundlessness
that occasionally drops to the ground