Final Section from "Eleven Eyes"

The spoons have clattered

Aren’t children little pears and observant birds

I note that the green blanket is askew again briefly

I have flung my sweater over the banister again

The corn cockle is beautiful

For months I’ve owed someone I’ll call Amy Rossini a letter and tomorrow I’ll write it but I can't explain

There was of course the matter of the curious descent into a mine and the terrible ascent of children hauling ore out of context

Brevity is not child’s play though child’s play is brief but slowly

Today a man in a green leather hat advised me to sink my shovel

If I were to write a letter to Knut Handekker now he wouldn’t remember who I was which in any case is not who I continue to be

Tchaikovsky died when he was 53

We’ll celebrate my birthday wearing hats in May at the beach

Taking the espresso I said gracias, and much else in daily life is unauthorized

The house in which I toss is known by its address but it might have been named Credulity and called a film

Believe me

Long ago I was once in Seville in a blue dress that could be washed and dried in less than an hour

I want to speak of revolutions in beauty but I hear hordes counting down to midnight

The tales I used to tell myself no longer do

None of this is true