In a dress, in a dream

your guide points out carvings, a well to kick.

Sissy mountains slope to ground.

His fans bay in the church of Perpetual Succour.

Plane to the apron,

a rook abed, to swindle and jack.
Walk into sky when the street ends, to turbid night.

Traffic dinks around a tower.

She rotates in her garden.

The spying dog returns, flummoxed.
What a relief, her promenade or whatnot

but still the shouting,

and languor overtakes both like a victim,

his velvety daub in the ashtray,

the sewn mouths in the islands.

Parliament resumes, on a corpse.

Each path, addled and peremptory, calls

in bossed waves.