The man stands in his boat in his oilskins
On a stream in Rhode Island,
Casting across the pool wedged under his bow

The body pierced by a small hole,
or the lampshade, invents you.

Arcades brick dust a rose lamp burns in the upstairs window
everything I will say I have said already         still again the
arcades the dust the light to be built by the bottle the box

How the seasons come unwrapped:
a rash like an orchid swells beneath my shirt.

And the toilet is running,
and it’s autumn all at once.

And the rain falls exactly
like rain only inside you.

The octopus is dead
who lived in Wylies Baths

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.

Chenille-skinned people are counting under the countryside
on resurrections by truck light off among the pines.

That winter. We missed her stark face
at work. Days till she was found, under