No velvet box or platinum setting,
no riding to hounds on the finger of a count,
no Interpol division to investigate

Someone shouts “Mehr Licht!” and a hundred drunk
Berliners run for flashlights. The maestro checks
his watch, lifts the phone. Six hours later he steps from a taxi

And this shall be divided. For her
a tine to clip the bloody twine
that bound our meat, tine to pierce

The last toddler’s howls evanesce like ash
on a breeze, the parking lot empties of cars.
A purple shock of cotton candy rots

After the TV crews packed up
the doctors in charge
got bored quick—Find a needle

after an oil painting by Peter Doig

As is always the case with Doig, we are on the inside.
Outside, this time, is a coast we all know.
The view is ideal: the day has reached an end,
the water is mostly still, and the moisture in the air
makes every light into a star.

HARALD, THE AGNOSTIC 
ALE-LOVING OLD SHEPHERD
ENEMY OF THE WHISKY-DRINKING

She never knew one of us from another, so my brothers and I grew up fighting 
Over our mother’s mind
Like sun-colored suitors in a Greek myth. We were willing

“Red as butchered beasts
 Miracle-mongers end;
 Sang the first wound

“Have you any cure,” cried the young sailor
Pulling against the tide,
“Have you any herb or spell to help