you could arrange them as you wished
and change the ending of our story.

The lovers peer from hammocks of flesh
where time, subtle as a spider,
hoards them in its net.

in a world the orange sun resets

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

But, my dear lord, now that it’s in your hand,
What are you going to do with it? The roots
Of a windblown seed had groped sideways

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,

When given a place to wait, it fills that place
By taking the shape of what contains it.
Its upper surface poised and level.