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 muchinto the landscape again. Projecting,as if playing a recorded image of myselfon the screen of terrain. I am…
Wind can’t move the lightonly what’s in front of it.
Stirring shadow-shaped leaves
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.