THE TELESCOPE picks off star dust
On the clean steel sky and sends it to me.
The telephone picks off my voice and
Sends it cross country a thousand miles.
The eyes in my head pick off pages of
Napoleon memoirs… a rag handler,
A head of dreams walks in a sheet of
Mist… the palace panels shut in nobodies
Drinking nothings out of silver
Helmets… in the end we all come to a
Rock island and the hold of the sea-walls.