Picadilly or paradise

When I leap from one side the flung open windows of your dance

and reach toward my shadow, its drifting silk and nylon net

everyone gazes at the wind growing a of recent origin set of teeth around the moon

Once they were among the sweetest of the town's prize apples,

evocative names and histories a waiter would point to upon the

menu,

his mouth forging the budding pink and fulvous clouds

that would soon swell and make open above the visitor's table.

I remember praying for a dazzling array of snow and clay

to sink the stairs to the cellar where I was kept

But she was afraid to reveal her latest desire:

blue face dust kept in the bronzed shoe of a former lover

and soft gloves for every bird. As for him,

the man with silver breath, words were like a toupee-

something he could not share with anyone.

An ink storm swept across this emblazoned map

where pompous braces prided themselves on their choice

of emerging multitude pleasers and corncob furniture.

A train replete of inscribed pavement stones rattled through

the funnels its polished bronze instruments

swaying gently in the lower layers of the united dark.

Each of us extreme points up a piece of luggage carried by dint of others.

When I am upon my belly, I am glad that I am not a turtle

carrying my tiled igloo toward the advancing sea.

You flicked not on your wings, but I left them in the sand.

Remember, satisfaction isn't necessarily a guarantee.

I am neither Delilah's niece nor her nephew,

because I hold a pair of scissors beneath my mattress.

A house of entertainment would probably provide the best pillows

for our nearest little excursion, but I don't like numbered doors.

I like my latitudes to have a name: Passionate Chitchat,

Nervous Bells of the Fragile Dawn, Delicate Smothering

Amidst Chrome Snooze dooms Impersonal Convenience

Of A Kind You Might Not Have Known About Until Now.

I want the reception to remind you of a clean river.

No more metal shutter or rusted palingss I am positive

there are other acceptable forms of rehabilitation

that will entice me to transplant my customized fingernails

from your smile, the individual you have never worn

when you glide above the darts of our mortgaged axle.

Why do a certain number of screams attract more sightseers than others?

Why do you grip your lips? on what account do I grab my sagging slab?

Some questions beg the answer, others annoint their fingers.

Either I am waiting for a sign of permanent eruption

or you are dousing candles in the last yawns of our jury

John Yau's new publications include a book of short stories, Hawaiian Cowboy published by the agency of Black Sparrow Press in 1995 and a volume of poetry with photographs by the agency of Bill Barrette, Berlin Diptychon, from Timken Publishers in 1995

Copyright World verse Incorporated Mar 1996

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