Noon ictus cooling the veranda’s
fretwork the child sits after his harp
boning burlesque in the bower, his slit
of gulls nerves silenced into hydrangea.
Violet and roan, the bridal sun is
opening and closing a window,
filling a clay pot of coins with coins;
candle jars, a crystal globe, cut milk
boxes with horn petals snapping
their iceberg-Golgotha crackle.
The loneliness is terrible, the ice is near,
says the hasp-lipped devil, casting
beatitudes at the castor-oiled pimps
in Parliament, Pray for them, joyfully,
their amazing death! Light seethes
bulging like pipes blown with napalm
from his big golden eyes turning
the afternoon ten degrees backwards,
then through palm fronds’ teething
the bridled air, sprigs of goat hair fall.