My brother's eye was painted
clear in family portraits.

So torrents of the Seventh,
Fifth and Ninth. Riverbeds of
Bach, Beethoven and Amadeus
rapids of the sky, peaks and pastures

I open a volume of fluid. 
A bright sloth orphanage glints 
from the screen within the screen, 

Remember the human body was trimmed
From something bigger and worse

Mother spoke skua: 
she shrieked. Who can roll back 
the Atlantic scandal?

Character is a failure of love,
And I want to love you this morning.

Death stirs under their feet, and the musicians wearing cocked hats in a corner, playing the shepherd’s flute and something that looks like a fiddle, pluck death in broad stringy sweeps 

This morning I killed more wasps
Than I could count.