Elegy On Toy Piano

Hammock Half in Sun

Hammock Half in Sun The knife makes a smile in the melon, the foot waits to be stood on unironically, the key shines with its secret duty. The tides tidy up the beach of footprints and brief architectural forays— they are nothing to the sea’s machines of siege as your hair band is nothing to the wind and the wind is nothing to your beauty and increases it by rearrangement. I like the exhibit in the museum where you take a rock from a pile of rocks and put it in a circle marked sorrow or the other, gladness. At the end of day, are the rocks taken up to be given another chance the next and what of when the show is over, struck like a set, how are they released? I.e., what happens to all the personness when the body is a mess and percolates no more? Some say it hangs about for an hour or week wanting to pat a knee or make us laugh in a straw hat or sour the milk, others that it is gone in a flash, its light flooding the room for a millisecond so we are all fixed, some part of us forever stuck, each fitted to a shadow which too, après flash, flees and/or bleeds school-of-fishly into other shadows in the drapery folds and the corner where a green spider waits. 21 ...