The instep-shaped landscape, the shade of a jackboot, with nothing moving.
The century’s serial number matches a rooster's croak.
At dusk, dapple mutants repair from far fields, a-mooing
a bulky unicorn flock.
Only the seasons appear to know how to take a hint.
Chasing her slippery soap, a hausfraus sheds a tear
over her man's failure to hold the hilt
of his sword turning into a plowshare.
Still, a framed watercolor depicts a storm;
in a novel, the second letter is the previous one’s dead ringer.
Near the cinema youngsters linger
like lightly corked bottles with frozen sperm.
The evening sky offers little to hope for, still less to cope
with. And only a veteran can still recall the foreign
name of a trench that a star has fall
into, escaping the telescope.