(in memoriam David Gascoyne, 1916-2001)
A paper box, repulsive with black olives,
the juice and the stained table and sleep,
contending among its worlds.
The frame that holds the glass
carries another still life than the one assigned to it,
the pressure of acquisitive hands has brought it
to amnesia’s door.
Exile among the yellow buildings,
ash instead of breadcrumbs for the ones who
may be following, intent like a hermaphrodite
among heroic sculptures.
Do you speak French? a bulldog asks,
the relief contours of mange
an ambassador’s goodwill sash.
Night thoughts borrow the horror
of the settling day, and the moon
opens its mouth above the yellow,
the quiet buildings.