that’ll vex the wheat like a window that’s frosted and
starred by a pistol shot
There’ll also be on the first step of a staircase that’s real old like a mattress
taking flight
a little rat
whose tail will recall to the first passerby
his previous occupation as orchestra conductor
which he’s forgotten because of his hat
which is a map of England
with Scotland blotted out by a spot of ink
which you wouldn’t know whether to call blue
red or green
or if it’s the grease around it
that forms this little aurora borealis
flat and bloodless as a sugar wafer
or a bald jackass that still has the strength to bray
seeing a screwdriver
balancing nonchalantly on top of its head
and to open its enormous green kisser like a ruined church
from which escape several lame acrobats
a turkey-cock thrashing its wings like a bank
and more than a million dictionaries resembling old jackets
real old jackets
extremely old jackets
with pockets deformed by the weight of having held stars
with buttons so big you could hang from them
with collars that look like a french flag in a dungheap
real old jackets
with grease stains that are weeping
mayonnaise tears
real old jackets