Tomorrow the future will be here,
open her great droopy eye.
She will clean out the barn
with a white boa thrown around her neck
while the pterodactyl dreams
in his floral chambers, destitute
of feathers and the supporting surface
of wings, dreams of the difference
between a long time and a short time,
of getting out of this life
and staying—a flower and a fire engine,
out of this world. Miss Future
might remember something, some summer,

but she’s tired and anxious
for a new oblivion, something
to agitate her. Just for the hell of it
she has the ball on the lawn
roll away from home. The opponent,
her father, takes advantage of this
situation, this holiday, and pours
a flame through her yawning hoop,
a red nothing, one of everything.
And, with spite for tomorrow’s sameness,
makes the wild river quiet inside.
With all her sex she turns away
from this possible unnatural temple

of transmogrified instants,
and throws a few gravestones
at her children, asleep in manicured
detachment, in an airplane that floats
like a song, in a Cadillac full 
of roses (that stalls on the beach),
and on seahorses that back
into their twinkling caves;
an inclination to cling to them,
to not let them slip, to let them sleep—
an icicle that grows from a tree,
a feather thrown into a canyon,
a dime found in the snow.