Every silver lining
has its dark cloud said
the cobbler and
you don't skin your
mother in the open
window
he splinters and splices of sun
licking the chair rungs crying
the whole rockinghorse afternoon in
an austere corner the
light
harrowed by mules.
with a clean peal of laughter
the dawn's brass
band cauterizes the wound
the fingers made in the skin
of afternoon
in the mustard-colored
sky painted cobalt
trampling underfoot
the green bread
of the poppy sand
twisting its dances
At 4 in the afternoon
not at 5 the
lightning-swift arrival of
the merry-go-round
's daughter
fixes the colors in the tureen
the light grows
indifferent and
suddenly
it went sour the
dance with the merry-go-
uncle