The Last Time My Head

The last time my head was full of hands,
I laughed all the way to the cloudbank
for a complete withdrawal. Maybe you know
something about this, but if not there’s a clue
in the polyhedron of yesterday’s blackbird-
bludgeon-ry sitting-on-a-fence. It’s a song,
which isn’t correct, but who’s counting?
My head full of plaster. And you, sir, alert
in a sea of phony leaves. What we’re really after,
as we forage in the trees, is a pocketful of meadowlark,
the overwhelming matter — a matter
related to the last thing, but not nearly so mousetrap,
so gravelly grave. The truth is that we’re stuck
in a shadow puppet’s shadow. We think
we see a tree house, but it’s only hair and twigs.

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