Him on the warmlight park bench he scritched his head—and out from the scalp alteration tiny birds flew out, blue and red tinybirds flowing out in spirals and in every-directionals out of his head, certain large birds also popping out and going to the fishtree branch, and he sat through this eruption. It stopped after awhile.
Still Eating Oranges
Empty room empty cage, basementfingers come under the door. The window is open curtain shifting sun setting, she climbs out of it with two belongings. Titanic pigeons in the sky and one on the ground: she gets on and flies away. Down back below fingers close the curtain.
Still Eating Oranges
Little stringthreads loose on her sleeve, a turquoise quiet. In hand she held the rock from the melting water, earlier before, and also mother’s skirt side. Invalid Walter had been visited. They visited the stained glass girl who had birth secrets in her knowledge. At the river water they had thrown nothing, instead taking a disruptive stone away.
Still Eating Oranges
He saw across the street a dog-stare; snow fell. Lean dog. Infinite hands held his shoulder and dog left. They walked too, past a laughing struggle outside. Entered cafe.
Still Eating Oranges
“The little one is ill, the little one will die. The one who gave us sight, who locked up the obscurities in forests of firs, who dried up the streets after the storm. He did have, he had an accomodating stomach, he bred the mildest climate in his bones and made love to the belfries.
The little one is ill, the little one will die. Now he holds the world by one end and the bird by those feathers which the night brings to him. They will robe him in a rich robe, on the order of a basket, its background of gold, embroidered with gold dust, and a chin-strap with tassels of good will, and confetti in his hair. The clouds announce that he has only two hours more. At the window a needle registers the tremors and digressions of his agony. In their hiding places of sugared lace, the pyramids bow deeply, and the dogs hide themselves in riddles — majesties do not like to be seen crying. And the lightning-rod? Where is His Honour the lightning-rod?
He was good. He was kind. He never whipped the wind nor squelched the mud unless it was necessary. And never did he retire into a deluge. But he will die. Is it then nothing at all to be small?
”
