Moving Galleries

We have velvet theories
about boys becoming men,
the mysteries of plumbing ... 

The lights in the street
are gold or white or blue.

The primitive grass says nothing
of what’s to come. ...

a Dusky Moor Hen
drinks
some of its home

She’s a delicate rose
Found in flowery prose
And I’m not her. ...

Do my ears look big in this?
You’d tell me if they did,
Right?
Cause my forearm clashes with my pants. ...

I’m listening to Hurt, which Johnny Cash
now sings: the needle’s in his voice, a ghost
lends him its wings, and even with the clash ...

The wind rhymes with the sound of their pants

brushing against their legs. The music must shift

to a higher register, whenever the diesel trains roar. ...