Cups: 1

Inside I brought willows, the tips bursting, blue iris (I forget the legend of long life they represent) and the branch of pepper tree whose pink seeds lack the passion of most fruit. On my hands a perfume of pepper. Outside the rain walks. There were two. Their posture taken out of the wall- paper (a ghost story) Jack talked.    His determined privacy against my public face.     The poem by dictation.      A disturbance in the cone of weather. Neither of these is not making.     The comic is a matter of style as yellow hands mark the worker. The clown of dignity sits in a tree. The clown of games hangs there too. Which is which or where they go— the point is to make others see that two men in a tree is clearly the same thing as poetry.