Can you remember our guest
in this empty house?
		      the room humid
with cooking cotton,
Its illusions are fully furnished,
since the windows filled with milk

blast of glass waste banking up
for airless weeks.

The money spider crosses a hand.
saint, witch, schizophrenic

If a picture could talk we could not understand it.
We write beneath the noise of men
a library of untranslated prose.

Look up and smile; the coffee drinks the cup

And our breaths intertwine on the world's edge
trees shaped like trees, the idea of water

Sight has its own methodology. Hearing too.
move solidly through public streets

                                           Please recycle
old questions in new English.
the spaces between breaths.
I don't believe there's anything to say

Every day Abba Paul plaited a new basket,
charging $5 for audience development

displayed in a place where ducks
stop traffic and families picnic

Now, that's what I call art.