Fickleyes, Futilears, & William Wormswork

[jeff harrison]

wings, the back eye in,
the eye extends front
the inside dance is here
peach-articulate punch
cupped patiently, see,
the palms are there,
the head, the toes
my painting,
              Wormswork,
my, as into me, oh my
you're so... who? what
upon each sheet
frames your final me
you're final... & me? I'm
so... flowered, spit in
the middle of your bedside
a papyrus marked loose with
dripping, your hands, see, are
soft blocks, maybe they'll touch
the first eyes in view for imprint
of those eyes on your soft blocks
your wings'll go stepping over teeth,
new rooftops, lemon trees, now,
with your wings, they lie long flat
against your back, carved names
preceded any tongue, inside clocks
are bones, spines, along them run
a sigh, also along both painted mouths...
& along the ceiling under those rooftops
are hung the fingers you may sometime
like to visit, petals tabled with candles
your body, Wormswork, laced with maps
and topped with a halo - & mine? it's so...


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