The sky lined with yellow
is liked by people who like themselves.
Distances waft around in the order of their imagining
down to the red flower of tissue
that was fastened to my head.
The sky is liked by people who want to be lied to.
They make a blue flower
that offers itself to obscurity.

I could sell you to my brother.
I think of clover when I think of him,
but we were together all day
and did or said nothing that involved clover.
A clover would take me, not to a higher place,
but make this one more focused, necessary
in getting all the events in my life bundled in nerve
and not the flat appendages that hang on my face.

What, in the making of the universe,
made them leave out the penetration of your impressions?
In clean linens they come out,
but all dances are in time of falling leaves.
We look at the mountains, and you say
it is better to see back here
as you disappear into your second, different chance.
The clovers and mountains are this, something else, right here.