Profitless, their gossiping images

My tree stays tree.

A superhighway seals me off.

In the bowl the hare is aborted, Its baby head out of the way, embalmed in spice, Flayed of fur and humanity.

Insane for the destination,

Mother, whose witches always, always Got baked into gingerbread,

No animal spoils on her green doorstep.

How your bad dreams possess and endow me.

Bears a burden too weighty

With the languor of idols below The sky's great bell glass and briefly engrave Our limbs' image on a field of straw

But now turned kinder with time, we mark Miss Mason

Leave and arrive, and there is no end to the country.

New oysters

Its crystals

Age and terror, like nurses, attend her,

Leftover soldiers from old, messy wars.

Goat-horns.

Themselves as the dawn Grayness blues, reddens, and the outline Of the world comes clear and fills with color.

For the blood-heat that would ruddle or reclaim.

Tomorrow they will swim In vinegar like saints' relics.