I allow my mind to dress itself in the morning,
and if it wants to wear underwear for a hat, I let it.
But, because it has good taste, it usually only picks expensive
athletic compression shorts, or ladies’ silk teddy bottoms.

My mind is a divan of sausage machines;
why is there a meat slicer in the library?
The bears are full  of other things than honey.
I do not know what things my bears are full of.

My mind is a change machine for carnival tokens:
I spin the nations on a nickelodeon,
and dine, with cartoons, on the Truman balcony.

Democratic Monet stands with his camera,
capturing this scene of birds in subdued color and flight:
a street festival with antique vendors, and lemonade with liquor
and food from countries whose names I can’t pronounce:

a spice rack, full of dandelions and stinging nettles, in bloom.
the inside of a magnolia tree, full of children,
with hams drying on the branches.