Be less stupid.
Who sheared the fog from the mountains?
They’re bleating, nearly bald,
huddled together at the horizon.
Or I’m reading too much
into the landscape again. Projecting,
as if playing a recorded image of myself
on the screen of terrain. I am…
Wind can’t move the light
only what’s in front of it.
Sculptor left your stone eyes blank. But you were busy looking someplace else.
No dancing girl, Mohenjo Daro, terra cotta, Indian Jazz Baby, Twenties flapper contraband for bobbed hair alone.