When hunting, an Inuit man makes an igloo a day. Some of them have ice windows.

Once a day he walks away from the snow house by the snow hill.

An Inuit elder who saw an airplane says, It was talked about for a long time. It was constantly talked about as something that looked like a loon that

Food for the fat is like air. It fills you up
and lifts you out of the chair where otherwise
you sit like a dead seal.

What about one of Michelangelo’s last Pietas
in the maze of outbuildings at Sforza Castle, the dead Christ
visually carrying his mother

 Yes, the zucchinis grow heavy and wicked,
and yes, a porcupine parses the orchard
one rummy apple at a time.

There is a tree falling in our back lot,
a willow, gigantic and scarred, with torn limbs
hanging at oblique angles, its base a tangle

Sitting up, nude, shrouded in twisted sheets, muffling
the travel alarm, she touches him, asking
if feathers have no pigment, that is, if they are clear

That old scene—monkey see and monkey do—
is done. That organizing grind, the grid,
is barred. Guerilla movements must exclude

We were too late to catch the moon,
already hauled from the swamp
and hung up to dry. Moon melon,

Then the old paragon rose and spoke: “Until this week we had the luxury of playing with language. Now, everything is suddenly the same. We must use words, my compañeros, to construct towering forms, juggernauts of play. We must dismantle the family—you know which one—using these edifices. Only then will our children’s earnings and our

well-muscled young men be safe. Until this week we could play in the fields of bombs. Now we crenellate or die.” Thus he spoke, and thus the initialed generals responded: “Under

 We are separate and will separate more
our flock beds and bolsters, our porringers
and pot hooks, brought into homes wrought