where stage blood or sunlight
fills the hundreds of clear jellyfish splayed along the beach
(from “In the Golden Age of Counterfeiting)
Each night on the terrace where crows pick locks,
I paint my little crow gold, and it sings my new favorite
part and we go for a spin in a a good gear
The dog takes the leash in his mouth. A bottle rocket lay in the snow. A canary lay in the snow. I dreamt my father, uncle, brother were throwing pies at a bear. But there’s no pie in the ivy. No snowball in the sentence. No teeth coming down.
(from “IV. Exit [If the Blind Need Nudging:]“)
The one about the jellyfish is particularly right. I walk by jellyfish every morning on the Potomac. They’re all smudged up on the beach with that weird reddish brain. It looks like they were just tossed there like junk. I will read more of this when I can.