Asleep at the Wheel
Five-pointed maple leaves dancing brightly
behind a shaded lattice of French windows. . . .
The sight will not dim,
The orange carpet does not change.
So where does the miracle manifest
and whose galoshes are muddied now
in the streets below?
The times for an intemperate glance are past;
The rose blooms and scatters ash. . . .
The lines, the lines
etched in veneer or brushed aluminum
blow past your nose.
Coupled to this and coupled to that
The crested cockatoo perches plump and squat.
The taste would be ginger
or roasted chocolate.
Page 10 (Black Book: Light Heart)
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