The workman
in white crossing the street
carries the wood T-beam

The model prisoner
edges his way through
the narrow gap between

Aldous Huxley and Thomas Mann by the light
Gold after-light of a California sunset,
Strolled with their wives on a deserted beach

They’ll seem to pose for you,
though they’re always posed

When our semi-conductor
Raised his baton, we sat there
Gaping at Marche Militaire,

 On summer days at the swampy edge of the river
   He would bundle his shirt and shoes, his pantaloons
         And drawers on the dry bank

It means stand still. It means
stay just as sweet as you are
and where you are and don’t do

You don’t have to worry.
Your secrets are safe with me.
Your secret of how you construct a beautiful necklace from rainwater.

You realize, even as you start this
that it won’t end up as a sonnet—
and by “sonnet” I don’t mean just a poem

A man decides to wear a baby instead of a hat. 
Sometimes the baby pisses and shits on his head, 
but the man doesn’t care. He is in all other