King Zazie
The Three-Part Radiator
for Theresa
The tourmaline hummingbirds
Trapped in the rowboat of your shiver and sigh
Have magnetized the smoking eyes
Of those 1000 caryatid barricades
Paris mirrors her 1000 legs within
Because the dolphins shelter black fireworks
In the white trees knotted between your breasts
Where the shades of all the wings are electroplated
And made into spoons
For capuchins.
The spoon stops in the path to ask
Why the phone lace little Escalator Swan
Where’s your knuckled nerves Keyhole Ghost
Whose cinnamon path is shuddering
in the kitchen down below
telephone like a tree
takes refuge
in your bed’s old-fashioned waterway
separated from its oysters
its pillows a silk neck
marked with physics chalk
on the blackboard of the peacock
The spoon stops halfway through the story to ask
What’s new in shoes Tobacco Dictionary
How’s it hanging
Her silk neck
stitches a wheatfield
around each corner
like a noose
made of a swan’s avalanche
Beauty’s sleeping umbrella
she murmurs
into the hummingbird corpse
not far from here
where we are both meeting