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["Jeremy Donaldson" <evansj@punctuationsucks.com>]

trainer flips young alligators over on their backs,
End of the comedy.
Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who stand
wonders if she'd ever be brave enough
Not daring to oppose
Only a fox whose den I cannot find.
Will sound, then the Lord's face will luminesce
That open before me? What I see
And half-starved foxes shake and paw
They move against, or through, or by, or toward.
A kind of snow, which hesitates
And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,
The bees are buzzing,
To a higher level of appearance.
Centimeters—that the height of the canvas
Whiteness, those pediments that rise
Of too much truth to do much more than lie
The road, but not far enough ahead
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze