After Striking the Startled Air with My Head

What do I care for a memory whose thoughts

Are heat lightning whose convolutions whole

Towns manage to speak at last a word they say

Supposedly satisfied with a flabby-muscled

Squelch like an alcoholic’s fart ah nevertheless

The brain’s only a cord-caught thought quivering

Flowerly the real form of which I won’t tell you

Though yes of course I could surely become quiet

As a shadow exhaling exquisite little sounds one

At a time and all in a row there on a table

Like shots of dark liquor for my forlorn friends

So far away they confound even the summer

Solstice in this envious town where old women sell

Baskets of the best eggs on some stone step

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