My brother's eye was painted
clear in family portraits.

She thrust upwards and screamed .
Her cat woke, leapt off the windowsill,
and broke a vase containing dried Latvian flowers.

      Gin-weary, temple on the pane,
      I watch the props begin to shake
      The sunlight . As we climb, the plane

And still there is no season's story told
by words, expressive, eager to explain;
no winter's tale will pass from mouth to mind;

For the sake of argument pretend
we don't know who they are, this couple,
one on either side of a cast-iron tree

No one misunderstands my satieties
Once they have had at the Caprichos
Without knowing what they are, that they are,

One can, she says, rewrite the story so it
becomes a progress-tale , a Bildungsroman ,
at the end of which our protagonist,

Perhaps, like everything, it has its flow and ebb,
The way nowhere, I mean, your brutal question.
Not that you were asking me. You asked no one

No, I'm not the Austrian—you're confusing me
with Dora—the one who deserted Freud
before he had his chance to perfect her.

Furtive, that's the version I want.
With eyes averted. Downcast, a little sly.
It's where it's looking, that's