The Stories

our suppers stunned on the table hold radios hold flasks of sound, sharp intensities bottled up for a time I taste your imagination, authors, and place it among cotton trees whose white stuff perches, cousins of the air if the manner could be political the high walls protect against disgust the lady of blue glass joined by Pierrot, a griffin,    papers, books, the chilled correspondence,     and another woman whose futurist shape suggests lines of the wind on my desk to awaken the traffic would have to run into the radio