Second Winter 

L’imprimerie de Mickey
3.

Looking at dawn, looking at dusk,
the look of the pendulous daisys
after dinner. Duck, um, cherries. And gateau.
Swollen from the graveyard of reproduction,
glinting off murano candies and
the stirrups in the foreman’s apartment.
If I had known more I
wouldn’t have gone further–
everyone on the boat, and the people
on the boat didn’t make it easy.
Pete dimmed the lights. Every winter
the light seeps deeper into the violet cracks
of the cement, so I am laying
flat in the steam shovel.
The stars are stars still, unfortunately.
I fell through the blueprint.
I fell over the anvil, and I fell over the foreman.
I fell over the hammer. But everyone
back then had inside them a plank
and a screw, and a wheelbarrow or two;
everyone was harried by the loggers,
and the wind moving at the edges
of the cement mixer.




L’imprimerie de Mickey
4. Horace’s Horsecollar

You know, you can wake and the rods would
still be rooted in the earth, and the beans in the fridge still.
In the video, the silhouettes of the 5 men standing in the
mud, amidst geometries alone found on all pottery.
Earlier, in “The Astronomer’s Dream”, you said “it comes out of me like a tree,
and there is wind today my friend” but it’s late today-
and the wind is even louder than before.
I see now why we all stuffed our ears at the clubhouse,
maybe his footfalls drum deep still into the Earth,
maybe that engine-thud is his tuning.
I go out in the night and I am telling you this dream.
I was on the staircase, coming to you from Condesa,
where spotlights and sweet music filled the air.
Mickey played lute to me as I washed up,
gravel from the road bouncing off the hardwood as
white dust flew through the entire world, and I heard Mickey,
but saw only mud upon my body, and as he played
his instrument to me, the bathroom gave admittance
to all sort of quadrupeds and loved ones, Horace,
holding vases with lozenges and snakes in relief.
His breath grew warm, and smelled of
seaweed, and then I recalled the dreamer’s clothes,
and Horace’s pajamas. We smile in the elevator,
but the spotlights have a surreal effect—
nobody knows how rolling in the field
creates a sexuality until itself, the rest of us
left in the shadows, as Horace is stuck at the
entrance, and the rods rooted even deeper in the earth.