Issue 48, Fall 1969
Sat for three days in a white room
a tiny truck of white flowers
was driving through the empty window
to warn off your neighbors
and their miniature flashlights.
across the lake
a blind sportsman had lost his canoe.
toward the paper cup
of my hand.
clever housewives tow my Dutch kitchen
across the lawn.
and in the mail a tiny circus
filled with ponies
a woman with feathers
have come so often lately
under my rubber veranda,
that I’m tearing apart all those tactless warnings
embroidered across your forehead.
I’m beginning to see those sounds
that I never even thought
I would hear.