sat for three days in a white room
a tiny truck of white flowers
was driving through the empty window
to warn off your neighbors
and their miniature flashlights.
by afternoon
across the lake
a blind sportsman had lost his canoe.
he swam
by evening
toward the paper cup
of my hand.
At dawn,
clever housewives tow my Dutch kitchen
across the lawn.
and in the mail a tiny circus
filed with ponies
had arrived.
You,
a woman with feathers
have come so often lately
under my rubber veranda
that I�m tearing apart all those tactless warnings
embroidered across your forehead.
Marc,
I�m beginning to see those sounds
that I never even thought
I would hear.
Over there a door is knocking
for example
with someone you hate.
and here I beg another to possess somehow
the warmth of these wooded eyes
so beside me
a lightbulb is revolving
wall to wall,
a reminder of the great sun
which had otherwise completely collapsed
down to the sore toe of the white universe.
its chalky light
rings
like a garden of tiny vegetables
to gather the quiet of these wet feelings
together
once again
like the sound of a watch
on your cold white wrist
which is reaching for a particular moment
to reoccur...
which is her...now.