An ant has landed in the distance, as I try
to realize the swords as bumbershoots fallen
tracked around under the horses placed, and beneath
there are giant cracks in lace. The hook cap of a cat
left into crystal of wood. Seeing a matter of
oranges raised, pole-braided into instrument of throng.
Nobody’s flag catches into pages marbled of an end.
I throw throats, howls the one in bath cap, but the
shower is raisin and he clicks on lit glass, a shard
map of pink of blood and the berry stillness. No one
looks beyond all this, and I only get to see it
tiny from away where I am.
Ed. note: Thanks to Geoffrey Young, publisher of The Figures, the press that published Coolidge’s Odes of Roba in 1991. On top, Paolo Uccello's "Battle of San Romano" at the Uffizi gallery in Florence.
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