Bottles of perfume and aftershave,
rafting their transatlantic smallness.
When birds are the noisy object,
a minor divinity shall be invoked.
The endless chirrup, descriptive of nothing,
idiotic, interminable, intoxicating.
Creatures fascinated by their shadows,
babillating as though sound were oxygen.
Bright-eyed children of a dangerous God,
epileptic in cigar smoke, tongue-flutters
thick as horsehair, bandolined where the sun
swims in a sea of black.
A straw-stuffed gingham doll,
needle through its featureless head,
cigarettes left at a crossroads
as a challenge to the skeptical horseman.